


Partners Old and New

by kronette



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The sly looks. The knowing glances. The conversations alone, Napoleon. 'If you are top agent, I am right under you.' How else should I have read that? All of that interest in me. All of those questions about girls. You were making sure I would be interested." Illya's hands returned to the wall next to his head, boxing him in again. The Russian's hot breath ghosted across his skin as he whispered, "Are you sure now?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Partners Old and New

**Author's Note:**

> Originally finished and posted 25 October, 2000 under my other pseud, Shelley Wright. I had two titles for this, the other being, "The Beginning."

Napoleon Solo, newly appointed Number Two of Section I of U.N.C.L.E., headed down to his superior's office. Alexander Waverly had requested his presence 'most urgently', and Napoleon was never one to keep anyone waiting. He quickened his step as he approached Waverly's secretary. He returned her flirtatious smile, then confidently walked through the parting doors.  
  
His training wouldn't allow him to show surprise, but he wondered why Number Two of Section Two was there. Illya Kuryakin was certainly a competent agent--rumors had him replacing Andy Tregor within a year—but Solo was used to working with Number One. He could adapt, however, if that was what Waverly ordered him to do.  
  
The three men stared at one another. Kuryakin with a wary glare, Solo with curiosity, and Waverly with confidence.  
  
Waverly's voice broke into Napoleon's thoughts. "Mr. Solo, please have a seat.  I assume you two are acquainted?"  
  
Solo nodded briefly in Kuryakin's direction, then focused his attention on Waverly. He'd been itching for a new assignment and it looked like this one was major. Kuryakin's quick mind had pulled them out of a few fires - one literally - and he knew the two of them were considered U.N.C.L.E.'s top agents.  
  
Waverly began without further delay. "Gentlemen, I have called you here with a special purpose. As you well know, Thrush has expanded in New York over the past several years. They know this location is our Headquarters. Their Headquarters remains a mystery. I would like you two to find it. Report back to me as much as you can: locations, numbers, technology, and plans. Assume nothing. Leave nothing - not one small detail - out of your reports."  
  
"Do you have any leads, sir?" Solo asked.  
  
Waverly nodded briefly, and the two agents raised their arms as the table spun around, revealing two files. Solo and Kuryakin picked them up and simultaneously flipped them open.  
  
Solo spoke first. "There's very little to go on. We know they're here in New York City, but little else."  
  
"We could capture a few men off the street and see what they know," Kuryakin's practicality shone through. "Some have been quite talkative in the past."  
  
"And far more others have said nothing. Would that be efficient?" Solo countered. He addressed Waverly. "How soon do you need this information, sir?"  
  
"Speed is of the utmost, gentlemen. I tend to agree that random Thrush agents will be of little help. However, there is one that could prove useful." He nodded to the files, and each agent leafed through the pages.  
  
"Francesca Dupois. One of the hardest agents to catch," Kuryakin muttered into his file.  
  
"Even harder to crack," Solo added. He glanced up at Waverly. "She knows of this?"  
  
"We have every reason to believe so." Waverly pointed his ever-present pipe at the folders. "Her last known whereabouts are listed for you. By whatever means necessary, find out what she knows of this."  
  
"Yes sir." Kuryakin was already starting to stand.  
  
Solo remained seated. "Whatever means?" he questioned softly.

Waverly stared him straight in the eye and Napoleon found himself chastised without an actual reprimand. "Yes, Mr. Solo. I'm afraid interrogation may be a necessity in this case."  
  
Solo resisted the urge to look up at Kuryakin. His reputation as a cold, indifferent man was as well known in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, as his own reputation as a ladies man. The Russian could be ruthless, uncaring, and deadly when called upon. And it looked as though it was being called upon.  
  
However he felt about it though, Solo would not question his superior officer. "Very well, sir. We'll get right on it."  
  
The two agents walked out of Waverly's office in silence. At the end of the corridor, Solo turned left while his new partner continued straight toward the elevators.  
  
"Where are you going?" Kuryakin questioned.  
  
"Cafeteria. I'd like to get something to eat before we go."  
  
The Russian shook his head. "I am heading down to weaponry. When you are finished, you can join me there."  
  
"Kuryakin! Illya," Solo called after his new partner's back. "Aren't you hungry?"  
  
Solo thought he noticed Kuryakin hesitate a split second before answering, "Food can wait. This cannot."  
  
Napoleon flashed a grin. "It would be unwise to start a mission like this on a half-empty stomach. What if we're captured? What if they try to starve us to death? We should be prepared for what..."  
  
"Is this an order?" Illya broke in expressionlessly.  
  
Napoleon studied him curiously. "Order? No...."  
  
"You are senior agent on this assignment, Solo. If you order me to eat, I will."  
  
Solo didn't know why, but he felt the Russian _wanted_ him to order him to eat. Maybe he didn't want to appear weak? Whatever it was, Napoleon always trusted his instincts. "Very well. I order you to accompany me to lunch," he said with a smile. "We'll radio down to weaponry and apprise them of the situation, though I'm sure Mr. Waverly already has."  
  
They discussed strategies over sandwiches. The Russian's single-mindedness was startling in its entirety. His focus was on the mission and the mission alone. What seemed like minutes later, Illya abruptly announced, "We should be going."  
  
Solo glanced at his watch in surprise, noting that forty-five minutes had passed. Kuryakin had a quick mind, and the idea he had generated on how to spring a trap for the deadly Thrush had impressed Napoleon. He was so engrossed in their strategizing, that he hadn't been aware of time passing. "Yes, let's head down to weaponry," he agreed.  
  
~~~  
  
The two agents had settled behind a dumpster across from the suspected Headquarters of Thrush. They'd been there over two hours with no movement from their targets.  
  
"You are studying me," Kuryakin remarked with a snarl.  
  
A smile curved his mouth. Kuryakin was more observant than Solo had originally given him credit for. He _had_ been staring again, trying to figure out the Russian. Napoleon shrugged nonchalantly. "I suppose I am. I don't know much about you. I was merely curious."  
  
Illya seemed to accept that and they went back to their watch of the building. Several minutes later, he asked, "Why?"  
  
"Why what?" Napoleon answered distractedly. He thought he had heard a noise further down the alley.  
  
"Why are you curious?" Kuryakin hissed.  
  
He thought about it for a moment. "I like mysteries," Solo decided upon. Sudden movement caught his eye. "Down there," he whispered. The smaller body next to his tensed, ready to spring into action. Solo followed suit.  
  
Napoleon tapped his watch to note the time and Kuryakin was off. He quickly subdued the Thrush agent and took great pains to secure him. As was expected, another Thrush agent sneaked up behind Illya and pressed a gun into his back. There was no fear - no emotion whatsoever – as Kuryakin was forced into the recesses of Thrush.  
  
A pang of regret, worry and something else tore through Solo as he watched his partner stoically being dragged off. Kuryakin had suggested this plan, and at first, Solo had objected. When Illya explained, succinctly, how he could withstand whatever they could do to him, Solo had forced himself not to show any emotion. He had known of the Russian's reputation as emotionless, but nothing had prepared him for the actuality of seeing it for himself. He suddenly felt ashamed he hadn't learned more about Illya before he had been captured.  
  
Captured. Shaking himself, Solo flipped on the receiver. They had fitted a small transmitter onto Illya's back tooth before they had left U.N.C.L.E. HQ. Now Solo traced his partner's movements. He regretted not being able to hear what was being said, but pushed that thought away quickly. Illya had done his part; now it was _his_ turn.  
  
When the signal remained steady for over an hour, Solo stealthily moved to the door and began the intricacies of picking the lock, disabling the alarm and remaining silent. The entire time, however, some small part of his mind wondered how Illya was doing.  
  
~~~  
  
It had taken five minutes to disable the alarm system and gain his way inside. Not his personal best, but he wanted to be careful. One of Kuryakin's insistences had been that he be given enough time to establish himself as a defector. Napoleon was dubious about such a statement. While Thrush did have a tendency to recruit ex-U.N.C.L.E. agents, they were also notoriously vigilant in their testing of such agents. Background checks were only the beginning. Intense interrogations, sometimes even torture, were used to uncover double agents. If they detected even the slightest flaw in Illya's deception, he would be killed.  
  
Bringing his full mind back to his problem at hand, Napoleon set about navigating the corridors of Thrush Headquarters. The few cameras he encountered were easily circumvented. Voices drifted toward him from a corridor to his right, and he started down that passageway when alarm klaxons sounded. Thrush agents quickly surrounded him.  
  
He straightened his suit and tie and gave them a broad smile. "Great! Maybe you could help me out. I was looking for a little Chinese place. Serves the best crab Rangoon and moo goo gai pan. The owner's name..."  
  
"Is not important, Mr. Solo," a voice interrupted him, and Solo turned to the new arrival.  
  
The agent was familiar to him, as was the traditional Thrush gun he held pointed at Napoleon. Dark eyes, dark hair and no sense of humor at all. They had met up several months ago, with no winner declared. Maybe this was his second chance. "No, it's not."  
  
"Two U.N.C.L.E. agents on the same night. Too coincidental for my tastes. Come on." The man waved his gun, indicating Solo to precede him. Napoleon took the corridor to his right toward the voices.  
  
He stopped outside a dark room lit by a bright spotlight. A none-too-gentle shove with the gun pushed him forward into the room.  
  
Kuryakin was suspended from a set of pipes running horizontal across the ceiling. His arms were spread wide and metal cuffs clamped his wrists. His feet were shackled to the floor by a short length of chain, so he was unable to take any pressure off his shoulders. Napoleon's back twitched in sympathy. A man was behind Kuryakin with a knife to his neck. There was no time to lose.  
  
"Kuryakin! Bargaining your way out of this? Or just selling our secrets?" Napoleon bellowed as he stepped fully into the room.  
  
His partner sneered back at him. "Solo. I feel privileged they sent you."  
  
He curled his lip disdainfully to keep up appearances, but his eyes swept the room carefully. Three men and a woman were behind the spotlight. Four men had accompanied him into the room. And the man still held the knife to Illya's throat. First, he had to get that agent away from his partner. "We had little choice. Your transmitter signal went drifting along the Hudson and we feared the worst. Then the reports came in that you had never left this building." Napoleon stepped a bit closer until he was outlined by the spotlight. "That looks painful," he noted with a hint of glee in his voice.  
  
"Looks can be deceiving," Kuryakin deflected, but Napoleon could see the sweat beaded on his forehead. Illya was in pain, but he continued with the charade. "My hosts have not seen fit to release me yet. A bit of a trust problem, you see."  
  
"Hardly surprising," he scoffed and dared another step closer to Illya. “Tell me, how did you get File 40 documents out of Headquarters? Waverly is most anxious to find out."  
  
The man holding the knife was engrossed in their conversation.  His arm started to slip away from Illya's neck. Napoleon hoped they could keep this up until he could get Illya free.  
  
"I hope he does not have an anxiety attack while waiting," Kuryakin retaliated. "It will be a hot day in Siberia before I tell you anything." Illya raised his head slightly toward his captors. "However, I will be sure to give them the full rundown."  
  
"I hate to interrupt this lovely reunion, but Mr. Solo, did you say his transmitter was active?" the lone woman asked.  
  
Damn it, not enough time. He was one foot away from Illya. He looked up at his partner and saw the slightest lift of his eyebrow. Time to finish this little game. "His transmitter is always active," Solo admitted. "We've had our suspicions about him for some time. This only confirms it."  
  
"Confirms what?" one of the captors asked from behind Napoleon.  
  
"That I want out," Illya broke in. He glared down at Solo. "Your orders are to kill me, aren't they? If you cannot get me back to detrain me, that is."  
  
"You are a liability," Solo confirmed, "that must be cut no matter the cost." He puffed out his chest arrogantly. "My orders are clear. I'm to make sure you don't talk."  
  
"But my dear Mr. Solo, he already has," the woman answered, just as Illya sneered coldly, "Go ahead and try to kill me. We may have the same basic training, but I have a wealth of street fighting you do not."  
  
"You are a disgrace," Solo hissed.  
  
"And you are a pompous fool," Illya spat. "You should all see the uselessness of your bravado. U.N.C.L.E. will fail as surely as all the other 'do gooders' have done in the past. You have become obsolete."  
  
"Let me kill him now," Solo snarled as he took a menacing step forward.  
  
"I fear not, Mr. Solo," a male voice called out.  
  
Before Napoleon could react, the man behind Illya lowered the knife and  abruptly released the clasp holding his right arm. Napoleon winced in sympathy as Kuryakin's left shoulder was forced to take all his weight. He restrained himself from helping as Illya's other arm was released and he dropped to the floor.  
  
Hands grabbed Napoleon's arms and he struggled briefly until the man with the knife advanced. He was dragged over to the pipes and his arms were held above his head. He struck out with both legs viciously, trying to keep Thrush from securing him while also making it look like he was aiming for Illya.  
  
Kuryakin dragged himself away before Solo's kicks connected. "Such childish behavior," he remarked as he stumbled to his feet. "Is that what U.N.C.L.E. has been reduced to?"  
  
"Only where traitors are concerned," Solo replied coldly. He winced as his wrists were snapped into the shackles, then gasped as one of the Thrush agents punched him in the stomach. He was punched again, presumably just for good measure. His head dropped to his chest as he tried to catch his breath.  
  
A female voice drew his attention. "Mr. Kuryakin."  
  
He raised his head and saw his captor's face for the first time: it was the woman they sought, Francesca Dupois. She was holding something out to Illya, who had gotten to his feet.  
  
"This is the key for those," she gestured at his ankle shackles. "And here is the key for his bonds." She handed him another key. "What you do with them is up to you."  
  
Illya immediately bent down and unlocked his feet. He straightened and flashed Francesca a smile. "You flatter me with your trust, Madame. However, I want nothing more to do with him or his organization. I would appreciate some hot water and a new shirt, though," he commented as he was handed his jacket and shoes. "This one appears unwearable in select company."  
  
"You Russian traitor. You'll have all of U.N.C.L.E. after your head," Napoleon threatened. Something hard punched into his lower back and he had to bite back a cry of pain.  
  
"My nationality is hardly a curse," Illya replied coldly. "And it is precisely why I wish to leave U.N.C.L.E. - they had my head and wasted it and the valuable treasures it contained." With that he turned to his hostess. "Madame, if you would guide me in the right direction, I would like to freshen up."  
  
"Don't trust him. Kill him now before he turns against you," Napoleon called after Dupois. Illya glared coldly at him before taking Francesca's arm. The little entourage of Francesca, Illya and half the Thrush agents left Napoleon silently cursing and still dangling from the pipe.  
  
Solo was only slightly taller than Illya, but his feet still didn't touch  the floor. His captors had only given him a precursory interrogation, then left him alone. At first he was relieved, then he started to worry.  All the surveillance on Thrush said they never let an opportunity escape them. Here they had not one, but two U.N.C.L.E. agents at their mercy. //Trap!// his mind screamed, and he could only hope the same sixth sense  had triggered Kuryakin's caution.  
  
Voices were drawing nearer, one of them Francesca's. Napoleon's wrists were in agony from the pressure of holding his entire body weight. The majority of his concentration was on relieving that pressure, so he didn't react immediately to Francesca's statement.  
  
"Our cause will do fine without you, Mr. Kuryakin," she informed the Russian as they entered the room. "I regret to inform you that we will not be able to use your services."  
  
Illya whirled around, his angered gaze slicing through Solo. Napoleon managed to keep up appearances by grinning smugly at him.  
  
Kuryakin bypassed his captors and went immediately up to Solo. "What did you tell them?"  
  
"I don't associate with traitors, Kuryakin," Napoleon sniffed. He shot a disgusted look to his captors. "Will you get him away from me? We at U.N.C.L.E. would like to forget he exists."  
  
Illya grabbed the lapels of his suit, hauling him closer as he uttered a Russian oath. "I will be a plague that infests your organization, Solo. If you survive, take that back to your superiors." There was a mild struggle to get Kuryakin off of Solo, and in the midst of it, Illya tried to reach Napoleon's wrists.  
  
"Mr. Kuryakin!" a voice called, but Illya was concentrating on inserting the key into the shackles without being noticed. The tumblers tumbled, and Napoleon's left wrist was free. A wave of intense pain shot through Napoleon’s right shoulder. He automatically reached up for the key still in the lock. Illya contented himself with fighting off the captors while Napoleon released his other wrist. He fell to his side and rolled over in time to see Francesca aim her gun at Illya. He leaped from the floor to tackle her, causing her to miss Illya by inches.  
  
"Nice," Kuryakin commented as he flipped another Thrush agent to the floor. "Football?"  
  
"Wrestling," Solo answered as he and Francesca fought over the gun. Napoleon triumphed and pulled her to her feet. "I suggest you all stop immediately!" he called out to the still-fighting agents.  
  
"I hope you don't mean me," Kuryakin commented, even as he retrieved a loose gun from the floor.  
  
Napoleon's eyes traveled the room, looking for signs of movement. "Not at all. Are you about ready to go?"  
  
"I have had quite enough of this place, yes. Do you know how to get out  of here?"  
  
"Of course," Solo answered confidently. He passed Francesca on to Illya and took the lead.  
  
"It is a shame, Mr. Kuryakin," Francesca sighed. "You would have made an excellent Thrush agent."  
  
"Thank you, Madame; however, you will forgive me if I say that statement gives me the chills." He fired at the Thrush agents at the end of the hall while keeping a tight hold on his captive's arm.  
  
Solo's aim knocked one of the agents out of their game, and then Illya's well-timed shot rendered the other useless. "I think the coast is clear," Napoleon announced.  
  
Alarm klaxons sounded at that exact instant.  
  
"Perhaps not," Solo corrected himself. "Which way to the control room?"  
  
Francesca retained her silence.  
  
"I didn't suppose it would be that easy," Napoleon lamented.  
  
"We had best get out of here before we are surrounded," Illya suggested.  
  
Shouts echoed along the corridors, drawing nearer. Napoleon waved his gun toward the door and the two U.N.C.L.E. agents and their prisoner moved quickly through the maze of corridors.  
  
Francesca dragged her feet and threatened to scream several times, but Illya shoved his stolen gun into her gut and hissed, "Do not think that I will not kill you. I tire of your antics."  
  
"You're only going to interrogate me, anyway. You may as well save your time by killing me now," she spat back.  
  
"You are too valuable to waste." He tugged her arm.  
  
"Illya," Solo chastised him mildly. "She is just a woman."  
  
"She is a Thrush agent," Illya countered. "And you would do well to remember that. Is that the exit?" he nodded toward a door.  
  
Napoleon recognized the door as the one he had come in. "Quick!" he hissed, and the three agents escaped to freedom.  
  
~~~  
  
Mr. Waverly took in the appearance of his two agents and bit down on the end of his pipe. "What the devil happened to you?"  
  
"Thrush, sir," Solo reported. "Our plan worked a bit too well."  
  
"You got inside?"  
  
"Mr. Waverly," Kuryakin interrupted, "I fear we did not find Thrush's main Headquarters."  
  
"What?" Solo and Waverly exclaimed.  
  
"Look at the facts." Illya sat down without redress and drew up a quick list. "There were five agents interrogating me; one woman, three men and one unknown. From what I could see, we passed maybe a dozen men, no more.  The equipment was slightly outdated, about two years old. They did not question me about any of the normal things."  
  
"Me either," Solo was forced to admit. "They left me alone after about fifteen minutes."  
  
"I had no surveillance on me once I was escorted to my room. I fear this may have all been a test, to see how clever we had grown and if we could compromise their security."  
  
Waverly sat back and took a puff of his pipe. "How did we fare, gentlemen? Pictures?"  
  
"Negative," Solo shook his head. "I never had time to assemble my camera."  
  
"Mine is assembled and hidden under the cot in my room. It also has a small transmitter attached to it. It was broadcasting until we arrived back at U.N.C.L.E. It went dead five minutes ago."  
  
"Do you think they discovered it?" Waverly questioned.  
  
Illya shrugged. "Perhaps, but I think they destroyed everything there, as a precaution. No doubt it was a contained blast, or we would have felt it."  
  
"A false Headquarters," Waverly repeated thoughtfully. "It is possible. We've had a few in our day as well. I'll think on this after seeing your reports. Dismissed."  
  
Solo nodded and waited for Illya to stand, then they walked out together. Napoleon rubbed his sore wrists. "That doesn't bother you?" he questioned, looking down at Kuryakin's own chaffed wrists.  
  
Illya shrugged. "It is a minor pain. I wish to question Dupois."  
  
"Waverly already has men on it."  
  
"I want to do it myself," he growled as he spun on his heels and attempted to return to Waverly's office.  
  
Napoleon's hand on his arm stopped him. "You know the rules."  
  
"I should be allowed. She is my prisoner."  
  
"She is U.N.C.L.E.'s prisoner," he reminded his partner quietly.  
  
Illya's blue eyes sparked with anger for a brief moment. He yanked his arm out of Napoleon's grasp and turned down the corridor. Solo jogged to catch up. "What do you want?" the blond man snarled.  
  
Napoleon took a step back from Illya's anger. "I wanted to know where you were going."  
  
"Home," Illya announced and started back down the hall.  
  
Napoleon matched his gait. "Oh?"  
  
"I need a change of clothes."  
  
"Need a lift?" Solo offered.  
  
Illya stopped moving and raised an eyebrow. "A lift?"  
  
Napoleon smiled indulgently. "Yes. In my car. It's parked in the garage."  
  
"I'd rather walk." He turned to go again.  
  
"You don't like me much, do you?" Solo asked softly. He wasn't sure Kuryakin had heard him, but then the Russian turned back. 

"Does it matter?"  
  
He shrugged and shoved his hands into his pants pockets. "Not as a general rule, no. But I get the feeling you are used to someone less...amicable?"  
  
Kuryakin arched an eyebrow. "I would have chosen a stronger word, but that is essentially correct."  
  
"I see." Solo hesitated, then asked, "What would it take to show you that that isn't the real me?" He caught the glint of laughter in those eyes before Kuryakin stamped it down.  
  
"I do not know."  
  
"Are you up for suggestions?" he prodded.  
  
"This is really..."  
  
"How about dinner?"  
  
"Dinner." He made it sound as if Napoleon had offered to pull out his toenails one by one.  
  
Napoleon checked his watch. "Yes. The meal we've missed as it is now close to eleven p.m. I don't know about you, but today's activities have given me an appetite."  
  
Kuryakin warily regarded him a moment. "Dinner. But I still need to change."  
  
"I'll drop you home then; I need to change as well. How about meeting somewhere?"  
  
"Midnight on a Tuesday in New York." The Russian shook his head. "The nicer restaurants will be closing. And I am not in the mood for your Americanized pizza."  
  
He would not be put off. There was something intriguing about Kuryakin, and he wanted to know more about him. He needed a relaxed atmosphere to get him to talk, and dinner was a perfect choice. "I know a deli that makes the best sandwiches this side of the Atlantic. And they're open 24 hours."  
  
Kuryakin hesitated again, and then a soft whine from the general vicinity of his stomach caused him to almost--not quite, but almost--smile. "I cannot argue with that. Perhaps we should skip changing and just eat."  
  
"Fine by me." They walked toward Solo's '62 Chevrolet convertible and Illya suppressed a sigh.  
  
"What is it?" Solo asked as he retrieved his keys from his pocket.  
  
"Your car. It is what one would use to pick up girls."  
  
"That is the general idea, yes." Napoleon unlocked the door for Illya and slid into the driver's seat. "It also has special features that U.N.C.L.E. installed, and it's the fastest car allowed on the highway without attracting too much suspicion."  
  
"Almost frighteningly practical," Kuryakin remarked dryly.  
  
He flashed a smile as he walked around to the driver's side. "I can be practical when necessary. I just prefer to enjoy life."  
  
"While it lasts," Napoleon thought he heard Illya mutter, but the smooth sounds of the engine starting drowned it out. The sleek car moved swiftly through traffic, and the two agents were content to remain quiet until they reached the small deli. They settled down and ordered, Napoleon taking the time to look his companion over.  
  
A minute later, Kuryakin's annoyed voice interrupted his thoughts. "You are studying me again."  
  
He shrugged. "It's something to do. You're across from me. Would you rather I studied the chair over there?"  
  
Kuryakin's reply was curt. "Yes."  
  
Napoleon graced him with his best charming smile. "That wouldn't be productive in getting to know you better."  
  
Illya's face was unreadable. "You are joking, aren't you?"  
  
"No. Why would I be?" he asked honestly.  
  
There was barely contained anger in those blue eyes. "Why do you feel this need to _know_ me? I am but a man; an agent the same as you."  
  
"Ah, there you are wrong. We are all unique, even if we share the same jobs. You, Illya Kuryakin, bring something special to your job."  
  
The Russian appeared speechless by that comment, but before Napoleon could pursue it further, their sandwiches arrived and conversation was halted as they began eating. Several satisfied minutes later, most of their immediate hunger was abated and Napoleon picked up the conversation.  
  
"I meant it when I said I wanted to get to know you better. Hardly anyone at Headquarters knows who you really are. I'd like to get below that dour face you put on for the world and get to know what makes Illya Kuryakin tick." He paused, hoping he hadn't scared the Russian away.  
  
"My heart," came the surprising answer.  
  
"What?" he asked, astounded at Illya's frankness.  
  
Kuryakin swallowed his bite and repeated, "My heart. It is what makes me tick. It pumps the blood through my veins and keeps the cardiovascular system moving. I find it rather helpful on occasion."  
  
Strike one. He admitted his defeat with a slight nod of his head. Illya returned the nod and took a sip of his coffee. Napoleon leaned back in his chair and contemplated the man before him. Kuryakin wasn't forthcoming in anything. His answers were sarcastic, misleading, or downright rude. Illya was putting him off at every turn, yet there was something elusive he felt he was missing. As an agent used to figuring out puzzles, it was driving him crazy. As if the answer was right in front of him, but invisible.  
  
He tried to think of a question that would rattle that cool exterior. One that would...ah. Something that always made him sit up and take notice. "Surely you have an active social life. What about girls?"  
  
"I have no time for such trivialities," Kuryakin put him off.  
  
Napoleon almost choked on his sandwich. "No time? _Trivialities?_ I'm talking about _women_. They are hardly..."  
  
"They are a distraction," Illya noted, giving him a cool glance.  
  
Ah, so that was it. He sobered. "You think I let my appreciation for women interfere in my work."  
  
"You are not the only agent to have that affliction, but yes. They are a distraction, just like any other."  
  
Napoleon said wistfully, "But they're so soft and..."  
  
"Could we discuss something else?" he was interrupted harshly.  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Anything. Politics," he spat.  
  
Napoleon shook his head. "Too close to work. I'd rather discuss something else. What about your time off? What do you like to do?"  
  
Illya thought a moment. "I read."  
  
"Really?" He leaned forward; his food pushed to the side. "What do you read?"  
  
"Books, mostly," Kuryakin answered, but Napoleon detected a hint of a smile playing about those eyes. "Essays, poems, magazines; anything really."  
  
"Any favorite author?"  
  
"Bronte."  
  
"She's a bit..."  
  
"Droll. Dire?"  
  
"Morbid would have been next on that list. I like things a bit more upbeat. Give me a good classic like Twain."  
  
"Twain!" the Russian gasped.  
  
"I suppose you would prefer Marx?" The instant the words were out of his mouth, Napoleon apologized. "I'm sorry. That was a cheap shot."  
  
"It would be a correct assumption, based on my heritage," Kuryakin conceded, "And the fact that you know me very little."  
  
"Which is why I wanted to talk to you...Illya," Napoleon stumbled a bit over the Russian's name, not sure how that statement would go over. "You remember I said I liked mysteries?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You are the ultimate mystery, Illya Kuryakin."  
  
Both blond eyebrows shot up at that statement, and Napoleon hastily amended, "What I meant was, you're not exactly talkative around Headquarters. You keep to yourself. The only thing everyone knows for sure is that you're ruthless in your pursuit of Thrush."  
  
"Maybe that is all I want known about myself."  
  
"I doubt that," Napoleon said softly. "Or else we wouldn't be having dinner together."  
  
"Dinner constitutes wanting to open up my soul to someone? I must write these things down for future reference," Illya quipped.  
  
"No, dinner constitutes that you wanted a companion to talk to," Napoleon countered. "You could have grabbed a bite on your way home. Or eaten at home. However, you allowed me to bully -"  
  
"BULLY!"  
  
"-you into going out to dinner. That implies that at least on one level, you wanted someone to talk to."  
  
"That is preposterous."  
  
Napoleon smiled. "It's true."  
  
His companion was quiet for several minutes. "What if it is?" Illya replied softly.  
  
"Then I am willing to sacrifice myself to be the listenee."  
  
"I do not pour my heart out. Nor do I have any secrets."  
  
"We all have secrets, Illya. What matters is how we carry them."  
  
Instead of the snide remark Napoleon had been preparing for, Illya remained silent. "That is true," he finally said, mild surprise and a hint of...what? Regret? Coloring his voice. "Like your probable fascination with Henry David Thoreau."  
  
"Thoreau!" Napoleon realized Kuryakin was changing the subject, and let him. The conversation was a bit more intense than he anticipated, and he would have time to learn more about the mysterious Russian. Something told him he had broken through to Kuryakin.  
  
"Or Jane Austin."  
  
They argued literature as they finished up their meal, returned to the car, and headed out.  
  
"Where is your place?" Napoleon asked as he pulled into the light traffic.  
  
"Over on fifth."  
  
"Really? I live on fifth as well. What number?" he asked.  
  
"Two twenty-one," Kuryakin answered crisply.  
  
Napoleon darted a glance over to the driver's seat, but Illya didn't appear to be joking.  
  
"Is that out of your way?" Kuryakin asked impatiently.  
  
"No," Napoleon stumbled over the word. "In fact, I live at two twenty-one." Illya glanced sharply at him, and he got a strange feeling in his gut.  
  
"What floor?" Kuryakin asked icily.  
  
"Fifteenth."  
  
Illya quietly announced, "I live on the sixth."  
  
"Sixth..." Illya lived in his building. "How long have you been living there?"  
  
"A little over six months."  
  
"And we've never run into each other. Remarkable. I didn't know you had moved in."  
  
"You wouldn't have known," Illya pronounced almost smugly. "I have told no one."  
  
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Napoleon parked the car and they approached the building.  
  
"May I ask you something?" Illya proposed as they entered the building.  
  
"Anything," Napoleon answered graciously. "Just don't expect the whole truth. It would ruin my image."  
  
"How odd," his companion whispered. "I was just going to ask you about your 'image.' Why do you do it?"  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Have that image. Of a..."  
  
Illya trailed off with a faintly disgusted expression on his face, and Napoleon had to bite back a smile. "I believe the term you are looking for is 'womanizer.' But before I answer, may I ask you a question? Why do you maintain the image of a heartless, cold, ruthless man?"  
  
"Are you sure it is an image?"  
  
"I've seen glimpses, and I have my hunches. I suspect your image is about as true as mine...which is roughly five percent."  
  
That earned him a true smile. How he knew that, he didn't know. But the Russian's face transformed, the dourness giving way to an impish grin for just an instant. "And the other ninety-five is...rubbish?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"If you knew me any better, I might have to kill you."  
  
Napoleon chuckled. "Very funny."  
  
"I'm not joking."  
  
The elevator stopped on the sixth floor and Illya stepped off. "Tomorrow," he nodded then walked to his left. Napoleon continued on to his floor, even more curious about the quiet Russian.  
  
~~~  
  
Napoleon was walking through Headquarters a day later when he passed one of the many training rooms. Illya was there, and it looked as if he were teaching a class on self-defense. Napoleon watched him for awhile, amazed at the dexterity the Russian possessed. Also the self-restraint. More than once, he let a student throw him to the mat, and didn't complain when their punches actually landed instead of being pulled. He showed remarkable patience for such a 'heartless' man.  
  
He indulged himself for a few moments, wondering again at the quiet man, when Kuryakin looked directly at him. The blue eyes were cautious...and there was a challenge there. Napoleon made a great show of pointing to himself, then the floor. Illya nodded.  
  
Napoleon removed his jacket as he entered the room. "You called?" he queried.  
  
"You were staring again," Illya hissed.  
  
"The window is there for exactly that," Solo reminded him.  
  
"I do not like being watched."  
  
"Then you are in the wrong line of work, my friend. You are constantly watched as an U.N.C.L.E. agent."  
  
"That is different and you know it." Illya crouched down and Napoleon mimicked the stance.  
  
"Does my watching you bother you?" he asked as he feigned a jab to Illya's midsection.  
  
"You know it does," Illya hissed as he dropped to the mat, swinging his legs to knock Napoleon off his feet.  
  
Caught off guard by Illya's statement, Napoleon went down hard and banged his head on the mat. He winced as he rubbed his head. How was he supposed to know that? And why would Illya think he would know that? What was he missing?  
  
"Here."  
  
He glanced up at the object of his thoughts, holding out his hand. Napoleon reached up, clasped Illya's hand, and stumbled as he was hauled to his feet. He caught himself by holding onto Illya's shoulder. His hand flexed involuntarily, and he was surprised at the strength underneath his fingers. Kuryakin possessed a deceptively wiry frame, but it was a honed body. His own wasn't quite in top physical form, but he kept in good shape. What must Illya do to keep in shape...  
  
He stared down into Illya's eyes, now widened until the iris left just a thin rim of blue. He slowly became aware of the stares of everyone in the room. He cleared his throat and stepped back, announcing a bit too loudly, "And that was a demonstration of what not to do, ladies and gentlemen. I'll let you get back to your class now."  
  
He could feel Illya's eyes on him as he walked out of the room, breath a little faster. Anxious for something to do, he headed down to Portuguese translations to flirt with Mandy. For some reason he wasn't ready to identify, he felt the need to put some distance between himself and Illya Kuryakin.  
  
Fifteen minutes into his conversation with Mandy, his communicator beeped. "Solo here."  
  
"Mr. Solo, Mr. Waverly requests your presence immediately in his office."  
  
"On my way." He bade his goodbye to Mandy and headed upstairs immediately.  
  
~~~~  
  
"Mr. Solo, please have a seat. Mr. Kuryakin will be here shortly."  
  
There was a slight falter in his step as Napoleon entered Mr. Waverly's office. He covered quickly and took a seat near the door.  
  
"It seems your stunt the other day stirred up quite a Thrush's nest. U.N.C.L.E. agents have been dodging Thrush all day. I need you...ah, Mr. Kuryakin. Please have a seat."  
  
Napoleon hadn't heard the door open, but the presence on his right was unmistakable. Illya slipped into the chair next to him. He forced himself to listen to Mr. Waverly.  
  
"As I was just briefing Mr. Solo, Thrush has been incredibly active the last twenty hours. Our agents have been run ragged trying to maintain some semblance of order. I need the two of you out there."  
  
"Doing what, exactly, sir?" Solo asked.  
  
"Thrush, in their haste, are getting sloppy. Reports are still coming in, but we have pieced together this," the table turned and Solo picked up the piece of paper. "We have another possible location for Thrush Headquarters."  
  
~~  
  
Napoleon casually rounded a corner and counted to five. When the man passed by, he karate chopped the gun out of his hand and quickly pinned him to the wall. The man struggled briefly, but Solo wretched his arm up higher and hissed, "I'll break it." The man quieted down.  
  
"Now, I want to ask you a few questions. Why are you following me?"  
  
The man remained silent.  
  
"Antisocial today, eh? Perhaps I can find something to encourage you." He pulled the man further into the alley and into a supposedly abandoned warehouse. Actually, it was an U.N.C.L.E. stronghold, used for such fieldwork. A non-descript building with just the tools he needed. He threw the man into a chair and swiftly tied him down. Soft sounds emanated from the dark corners of the warehouse. Napoleon knelt down by the Thrush agent and whispered, "Do you hear that? That is the sound of your fellow agents spilling their guts. Whether they're telling us what we want to know, or if I meant that in the literal sense is for you to decide. I, however, am much more civilized." With that, Napoleon reached to a small table in back of the chair and brought a syringe into the man's view. "This is not sodium pentathol. Neither is it poison. It is saline."  
  
He made a great show of soaking a cotton ball with alcohol and cleansing the crook of the man's elbow. "Tell me where Thrush's Headquarters are." He snapped a length of hospital tubing and quickly tied off the man's upper arm. The man showed just a hint of fear in his wide eyes, but still said nothing.  
  
"I'm not a licensed doctor," Solo said by way of apology. "And I would hate to miss the vein."  
  
"You're crazy!" The man finally spoke.  
  
"No, I'm dedicated to my profession. Now, tell me what I want to know." Napoleon picked up the syringe and grasped the man's arm to steady him. He could feel the tremors running through the man, and felt he needed a crowning touch to set the man talking. He inched the needle closer, pulling back just before he broke the skin.  
  
"What was I thinking!" he mock-hit himself on the forehead. "I completely forgot to check for air bubbles!" He made a great show of shooting a bit of liquid through the syringe, tapping on it for good measure. Then he bent once again to his task.  
  
"You can't..." the man hissed in a broken voice.  
  
"I'm sorry, did you say something?" Napoleon asked as he slipped the needle into the vein. "I didn't think you did." He gave just a little push, injecting a small amount into the agent's bloodstream.  
  
The man gave a choked noise, and Napoleon frowned. "I'm sorry. I didn't warn you? Saline can burn quite painfully if a dose is injected quickly. I can speed this up..."  
  
"No!"  
  
Napoleon went nose to nose with the man. "Tell me what I want to know."  
  
The man was sweating now in fear. Napoleon punched 2ccs into the man, who gasped in pain. "Oh, I'm sorry. My finger slipped." He emptied the syringe into the shaking man, then straightened up. He stalked around the man in slow, deliberate steps to heighten that spark of fear. He picked up a small bottle with dark liquid in it and returned to face the man.  
  
"That was saline. Slightly unpleasant, but not enough to kill you. This," he plunged the syringe into the bottle and filled it, "will."  
  
"I won't talk," the man replied bravely. "You'll kill me no matter what I say."  
  
"Possibly," Solo agreed. Before the man could say anything further, he had the needle back inside the man's vein. "However, isn't the chance of life better than none at all? This is radiator fluid. If I empty this into you, you will die. If you talk, I remove it. What's it to be?"  
  
He gave the man thirty seconds, then he started to push.  
  
"Wait!"  
  
The voice was barely above a rasp, but he halted as soon as the agent spoke. "Did you have something to tell me?" Napoleon asked impatiently.  
  
The agent gave him an address and two names. Calmly, Napoleon emptied the syringe into him.  
  
The man gasped painfully, his fists clenching on the chair arms. "I told you what you wanted to know! I told you what you wanted to know!"  
  
Solo deposited the used syringe onto the table, then straightened his tie and cuffs. "Yes, you did, thank you. A cleanup team will be along shortly to take care of," he gestured to the entire warehouse, "all of you. It's been a pleasure."  
  
Napoleon turned on his heel and headed toward the door, when a familiar voice called to him.  
  
"Solo."  
  
He walked over to Kuryakin, who was just finishing up with his own Thrush agent. He waited politely for the other agent to wipe his hands, then they walked a safe distance away.  
  
"I saw part of your interrogation," Kuryakin began without preamble.  
  
"I'm sorry to say I missed yours. Did it go well?"  
  
"As well as can be expected with only a few minutes to work with them. If I had hours..."  
  
"We don't have hours," he reminded Illya. "So we must do what we can. A distasteful part of the job, I must admit."  
  
"I don't know," Illya said with a sardonic gleam in his eye. "I rather enjoy it."  
  
Napoleon repressed a shudder at the coldness in the Russian's voice. He kept reminding himself that 95% of this was an act to keep people at a distance. But it was hard to remember that at times like these. "Be that as it may, we only have a limited time. Are you ready to report back to Waverly?"  
  
"Yes. I would like to discuss your technique on the way. Radiator fluid?" Illya asked as they stepped into the sunlight.  
  
"Well, not exactly. A bit of food coloring in saline. It still burned like hell, but it wasn't enough to kill him. I left that for the sweeper team."  
  
He started as Illya lightly grabbed his arm. "You left him alive?" he questioned, his voice tinged with astonishment.  
  
"I only kill when necessary. This wasn't necessary."  
  
"They have had no compulsions about killing our men," Kuryakin reminded him.  
  
"I won't stoop to their level," Napoleon hissed as he walked away.  
  
Illya jogged to catch up. "You do not believe in an eye for an eye?"  
  
Napoleon stopped and turned to stare down at Illya. "Do you?"  
  
The slighter man straightened to his full height and hissed, "Yes."  
  
"Curiouser and curiouser," Napoleon muttered to himself as he continued walking back to the main street. He felt Illya sidling up next to him and picked up the conversation as if they hadn't stopped. "It isn't exactly an unusual philosophy to have, but in our line of work, it could interfere with your judgement."  
  
"It could, if I allowed it. However, I do not let my emotions get the better of me."  
  
Napoleon took it as the insult it was with a slight nod. "And some of us have too much heart?"  
  
"Mmm," Illya answered non-committally.  
  
"We really do need to dispel this image you have of me," he muttered to himself.  
  
Illya's incredible hearing surprised him again. "How would you propose to do that?"  
  
"I don't know," he sighed. "I'm open for suggestions."  
  
"I may have one...but it will have to wait!" Illya ended his answer in a shout as three Thrush agents ambushed them. After a quick but bloody struggle, two Thrush were dead and one unconscious.  
  
Napoleon sat up and attempted to clean off his jacket. He glanced over to Illya, who was taking quick assessment of his own body. Seemingly satisfied, Kuryakin went over to the downed Thrush and checked on him.  
  
Solo decided it was time to check himself out as well. Slight blood from a cut just below his ear, undoubtedly from the butt of a gun. Bloody knuckles on the right hand, but no bones appeared to be broken. However, his attempt to stand was accompanied by a shooting pain in his right knee.  
  
A strong hand gripped his shoulder, distracting him from the pain. "What is it?" Illya's worried voice was in his ear.  
  
"Knee," he gasped out. "Must have twisted it."  
  
"Possibly when our friend over there swept your legs out from under you, or perhaps that flying kick you not-quite mastered."  
  
Napoleon grimaced, but found himself smiling through the pain despite himself. Kuryakin had been watching him as he fought. He had to admit; he had watched Illya as well. The man was quick on his feet, and had a deadly accurate aim. He hobbled a few steps, then leaned heavily on Illya as his knee gave out. "Damn," he muttered.  
  
"We have to get you out of sight," Illya stated quietly. "You are a prime target."  
  
"I'll be fine. Just let me catch my breath..." he started to protest, but Illya already had his communicator box out and had patched through a call to Mr. Waverly. Napoleon's hope that he wouldn't be taken off duty died as Waverly agreed that Solo should be off the streets as soon as possible.  
  
Napoleon sighed, resigned. "Fine. I'll just go back to my apartment and..." He took two steps and nearly fell down in a wave of nausea and pain.  
  
"You cannot walk. The obvious conclusion is that you also cannot drive."  
  
"It appears not," Solo answered dryly. "I'll just hide out in the warehouse until things calm down."  
  
"Target, remember? I will take you home." Illya's eyes did a quick survey of the alley.  
  
"I am not a baby to be coddled," he ground out through clenched teeth. "And I don't need protecting!"  
  
Illya's grip tightened on his shoulder. "Have you not paid attention out here today? Thrush has gone mad. Agents are being attacked in broad daylight in the middle of New York City."  
  
"And you should be out here, stopping them!" he argued. "Illya, I'm just one agent. I'll be fine. Prop me in a chair in the warehouse and go fight the bad guys."  
  
Illya shifted closer and whispered, "Thrush would not hesitate to assassinate one of U.N.C.L.E.'s top agents."  
  
Despite the hated feeling of Illya being right, the other man did have a point. In his current condition, Napoleon couldn't fight off one Thrush agent. His reflexes were severely hampered by his leg. He weighed his options. His security alarm in the apartment was activated, but a quick power outage would take care of that. One or two good kicks of the door, and Napoleon Solo wouldn't have to worry about his career any more. On the other hand, he would have to accept another agent's protection until he was fully recovered. And it looked like one agent in particular had already volunteered. An agent who's harsh breathing whispered past his ear as he struggled to calm down after the fight. An agent who had a rather tight grip on his shoulder, offering support.  
  
"I thought you wanted to protect me, not yourself," he quipped, hoping to distract himself from Illya's nearness. He suppressed a smile as Kuryakin's eyes rolled heavenward.  
  
"You are _the_ top agent, as you and everyone at Thrush knows. You are a..."  
  
"Target. Yes, I've heard that at least once today." He closed his eyes. The ambush and the loud throbbing pain in his knee had taken the fight out of him. "I assume you'll have to clear this with Waverly?" he asked, resigned to his fate.  
  
Illya held the communicator box aloft. "It will only take a moment." He held off making the connection, though. The Russian studied him intensely for a full minute, throwing Napoleon's senses out of whack. "Does this bother you?"  
  
Napoleon blinked at the quiet question. What difference did it make? In spite of his protests, he knew Illya was right. Right now he was a liability U.N.C.L.E. couldn't afford. "The whole situation bothers me. I'm down for a good two days with a bum knee while Thrush is on the rampage. I'm a helpless target who is also useless to lend assistance. And there's your feeling the need for babysitting duty. You need to be out here, stopping them. If I'm top agent, you're right under me."  
  
There was a change in the air; Napoleon could feel it. Illya's stare intensified, if that was humanly possible, and Napoleon suddenly got very hot. Sound seemed to fade away; his world focusing to the blue of the eyes in front of him...he shifted slightly and was shockingly reminded of his affliction.  
  
The moment was shattered, and the agents were once again all business. "How will you get around?" Illya asked.  
  
"I'll manage," he gasped out as he stood and carefully, slowly, started walking to the car.  
  
"At that rate, any number of Thrush agents could take you out in a heartbeat," Illya admonished. "Let me."  
  
Napoleon inhaled sharply as Illya's arm went about his waist, offering him support. He hesitated before resting his arm across Illya's shoulders, holding tight as the two agents made their way to the car. Once inside, Napoleon laid his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on anything other than the pain.  
  
"Solo, you have to keep your eyes on our surroundings," Illya admonished him. "I cannot watch all sides of the car and drive."  
  
"Sorry," he muttered as he focused his eyes on his side of the street. The ride was without incident, but even so, Illya took them on two different routes back to the apartment building.  
  
Napoleon pushed open the door and started to struggle out of the car, but it was awkward. He hopped slightly to the right in order to close the door, but he needed it for support. Standing silent at his side was Kuryakin, ready with his shoulder. Together they made it to the elevator and Napoleon leaned against the wall as they rode to the sixth floor.  
  
Napoleon wasn't sure what he was expecting. His expectations for a Russian perhaps. It wasn't as bare and cold as he briefly imagined, instead it was...neat would be his choice. A bookcase covered one of the living room walls. Another, smaller case was on the opposite wall. A thriving plant perched on top of the low case. Unusual paintings graced three walls. Plump, comfortably worn pillows were tossed haphazardly along the couch. Assorted splashes of color in an otherwise nondescript apartment.  
  
Illya secured the door and then helped him to the surprisingly soft couch. "I will be right back."  
  
Napoleon was still scanning the room when he heard a strange noise from one of the other rooms. "What was that?"  
  
"Sylvester," Illya answered as he placed a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water in front of him. Napoleon swallowed three gratefully.  
  
The Russian removed his jacket and laid it over the back of the chair, then clucked at the tear in his polo shirt.  
  
"Sylvester?" he asked.  
  
"My bird."  
  
"Bird." Illya had a pet? Curiouser and curiouser.  
  
"Sylvester is excellent for detecting odorless gas," Illya defended his pet.  
  
Napoleon had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. "You realize his name should be Tweety."  
  
"How unoriginal. Why ever would I name him that?"  
  
"Sylvester and Tweety." A blank stare. "Cartoon cat and bird? Sylvester the cat and Tweety Bird?" Napoleon tried again.  
  
Illya just shook his head. "I inherited him from one of my neighbors. She moved and the new place would not accept pets."  
  
"What do you know? The tin man had a heart after all," Napoleon muttered as he watched Illya move around his own space. The Russian was definitely more relaxed here, Napoleon decided. Kuryakin had taken his holster off a few minutes after Napoleon was settled, but his gun rested on the coffee table, almost dead center of the room. All the doors were open, and Illya walked over to the front window to open it as well. "The fire escape is in the bedroom," he explained, more for Solo's benefit, he was sure.  
  
"What about the building across the street?" Napoleon asked, keeping a wary eye on it. The window was open in that apartment as well, a perfect shot right into the living room.  
  
"An old lady with a huge Doberman lives there. She makes a lovely cup of tea."  
  
"You've met her?" he exclaimed softly. "I admit, I had U.N.C.L.E. check out my neighbors, but that's a bit extreme."  
  
Illya smirked, and Napoleon wondered what the joke was. "She is ex-U.N.C.L.E.; retired. She has told me some interesting stories about Mr. Waverly."  
  
"Who _are_ you and what have you done with Illya Kuryakin?" he muttered.  
  
Illya offered him that almost-smile again. "It is the pain. I am not actually revealing anything about my life." He headed into what Napoleon suspected was the bedroom.  
  
"Good. I was afraid it was a new means of interrogation by Thrush." He pushed himself off the couch and hobbled to the bookcase. "How are they arranged?" Napoleon asked as he scanned the books. Authors started over every third shelf it seemed. Titles were no help. Maybe by subject?  
  
Illya's voice drifted out to him. "The books? By card catalog."  
  
"Card catalog." Whatever was he going to do with this man?  
  
"You have this uncanny ability to repeat everything I say," Illya remarked as he stepped back into the room in a different shirt. "I hope it does not continue or else I will have to drug you."  
  
"Promises, promises," Napoleon muttered as he selected a tome and hopped back to the couch. "When are you going back out?"  
  
"We shall see." Illya propped himself in the chair and activated his communicator. "Mr. Waverly please."  
  
"Mr. Kuryakin? How is Napoleon?" the communications relay girl asked.  
  
Illya answered coldly, "Mr. Waverly if you please."  
  
The girl didn't bother to reply, just patched their boss through. "Sir, Solo appears to have strained a muscle, possibly the ligament in his knee. Did you want to send a guard here while I go back out?"  
  
"Negative, Mr. Kuryakin. You are the best guard for now."  
  
"Sir," Napoleon jumped into the conversation, "Kuryakin is needed out there. Thrush has to be stopped."  
  
"Sir," Illya glared over at him, "If we were watched as we left the alley, Thrush saw that Solo was hurt and that I was with him. If I return to the street, they could possibly deduce that I have left him alone."  
  
"An undue risk," Waverly acknowledged. "You are the best man for his protection, Mr. Kuryakin. Keep a sharp eye out."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"And Mr. Solo. Next time you want a vacation, please make arrangements beforehand."  
  
"Yes, sir," Napoleon acknowledged with a grimace. He glanced to Illya, certain the slight upturned corners of his mouth construed amusement.  
  
"Mr. Kuryakin, make sure he rests up right good. Mr. Solo, I need you back up as soon as possible."  
  
"Yes, sir," the two agents chorused, then Illya signed off. He glared down at Napoleon's knee.  
  
"If you are going to insist on walking about, you should have a leg brace."  
  
"The bookcase is right there. I warned you I won't be coddled."  
  
"Asking for a book is hardly coddling. And you know you need to stay off that knee as much as possible. Leg brace."  
  
"Are you just going to call the druggist and have him deliver one?" Napoleon called as Illya went into the other room.  
  
"No. I am going to rummage around until I find one." To prove it, he produced a small knee brace and held it up for Napoleon's approval. 

"Are you always this prepared?"  
  
Kuryakin shrugged. "Field agent. U.N.C.L.E. supplied most of my medicines."  
  
"Mine, too." He accepted the leg brace and puzzled over it for a minute. "In order to get this on, I'll have to take off my pants. However, I don't relish the idea of lying about in my underwear. I want to go upstairs and get a few things."  
  
"You cannot go with the brace on and no pants," Illya replied sensibly.  
  
"I'll get my pants on and off. It's not that hard." But he quickly discovered that in order to get pants off, one had to bend the knees. He threw the brace on the coffee table in disgust. Illya made a noise, and Solo was positive the Russian was laughing. "What do you suggest?" he snapped harshly.  
  
"I will get your things. Tell me what you want and where it is, and I will bring it back."  
  
"What about protecting me?"  
  
"If you move to that chair, you will discover an excellent line of fire to the kitchen window. The bedroom is just to the left of the kitchen. I will knock once before I open the door. If it is not me, shoot."  
  
"I might shoot anyway," Napoleon growled, but rattled off a list of toiletries and clothing. "And the address book by the telephone."  
  
"Would this be the infamous little black book?" Illya queried.  
  
"It's red, actually, and I have to make a few calls," he answered distractedly as he limped to the chair. He settled himself down and arranged his leg as best he could. When he looked up, Kuryakin had gone. He didn't want to get engrossed in the book, so he familiarized himself with the apartment layout instead. Soon he heard one sharp knock at the door. He raised his gun knowing it was probably Kuryakin, but just in case.  
  
"Solo?" the accented voice queried as the blond head appeared around the doorframe.  
  
"Come on in," Napoleon offered as he set the safety on his gun. Illya handed him a small bag and he immediately rummaged through it. He extracted the address book and asked to use the phone.  
  
"It is on the end table by the couch."  
  
"I just have to make a quick phone call. It's local," he explained as Kuryakin's face twisted in disgust.  
  
"You may use the phone as long as you wish," Illya offered magnanimously.  
  
Napoleon flashed his brightest smile. "Thanks." He dialed Jacqueline's number, hoping she was home. They had a date to go dancing in two days, and he was going to have to cancel. One of the worst perils of being a spy; never knowing when your off-time would actually come through.  
  
"Jacqueline! It's Napoleon. How are you?" He listened politely to her answer, then got straight to the point. "I'm afraid our date will have to be postponed. I've twisted my knee. In my current condition, I would be a pretty poor dance partner." She moaned her sympathy to him, offering to come over and nurse him back to health. He frowned, not wanting her to get involved at this point; he would be hard-pressed to explain _how_ he had sprained his knee. "No, that isn't necessary. I already have a friend watching me." Her outrage poured through the phone and he tried to calm her down. "Cara bella! Cara bella, it's a co-worker. No! Not another woman. A man." He laughed. "No, I'm afraid not. His wife may object strenuously. I will make it up to you." He laughed again. "That will be a surprise. No, no I won't tell you until then. Grazie, Jacqueline." He hung up the phone with a smile. He felt eyes on him and looked up to see Illya studying him intently.  
  
"You are incorrigible."  
  
"I managed to break a date yet keep the lady interested," he bragged.  
  
One blond brow raised. "You had to use me and invent a wife to do it."  
  
"Spoil sport." He sighed as he struggled to his feet. "I may as well use the bathroom before you get the dubious pleasure of helping me take my pants off."  
  
Illya made a move as if to help him, but held back. He made a not-so-obvious parallel walk, however, in case Solo needed him.  
  
He shut the door and shied away from the mirror. All this fuss about his leg, and he had forgotten the blood behind his ear. He cleaned himself up and took care of other business. He opened the door to step out and nearly bumped into Illya, who was coming out of the bedroom with a sheet and pillow.  
  
"You could watch where you're going," he teased.  
  
"I could say the same for you," Illya returned good-naturedly. "Have you thought of dinner?"  
  
"As a matter of fact," Napoleon started walking back to the couch, "I have. What did you have in mind?"  
  
"How does food sound?"  
  
"Wonderful," he sighed as he stretched out on the couch. "Do you know a place that delivers?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I thought you wanted me to stay off my leg?"  
  
"I do."  
  
He protested, "Then how am I supposed to go out..."  
  
"You are not. I am cooking."  
  
"Cooking."  
  
"What did I tell you about repeating everything I say?"  
  
Napoleon shook his head. "Sorry. I mean, it's obvious you live alone -- most agents do. Of course you can cook."  
  
"Thank you," Illya bowed slightly and went to the kitchen. "I am sorry I do not have a television set. I consider it a waste of time."  
  
"You have newspapers; much better," he said in a loud voice. "Want me to read the top headlines to you?"  
  
"How many languages can you read?" Illya called from the kitchen.  
  
"How many can you?" he muttered as he sifted through the pile on the coffee table. Russian, French, Italian, Chinese and the NY Times. He read the ones he could, offering commentary on certain issues that sparked a lively debate or two. Sooner than Napoleon realized, Illya was bringing a pan of lasagna to the table. He came back with plates, silverware and glasses of iced tea.  
  
"How did you make this so quickly?" he asked.  
  
Illya sat crossed-legged on the floor. "Reheated. I make enough for a few meals."  
  
"Must be your Slavic upbringing. Large family?"  
  
"Not really," he non-answered.  
  
Napoleon's orderly mind started to tick off the "non-answers" from the man sitting across from him. The two started a verbal Olympics, Napoleon trying to get Illya to answer a question directly, and Illya deflecting them all neatly. 'Not really,' 'you could say that,' 'in a manner of speaking'...Illya didn't answer any questions outright, except those about literature. Books were enthused about wholeheartedly. However, Napoleon got the distinct impression he was subtly being probed for answers himself.  
  
So he decided to up the stakes.  
  
He shifted on the couch, arranging himself carefully. The pain from his knee was down to a dull throb that could easily be ignored. "I know you said women were a distraction before, but that was in reference to now. What about before U.N.C.L.E.?"  
  
"I have always been an U.N.C.L.E. agent," Illya replied carefully.  
  
Napoleon laughed. "That's good. I like that one." He leaned forward. "Do you realize you haven't answered one of my questions tonight?"  
  
Illya made a great show of mopping up the last bit of sauce from his plate with a piece of bread. "I haven't? I seem to recall talking a great deal." He popped the bread into his mouth.  
  
"Yes, but you haven't _said_ anything. You've avoided all opportunity to tell me about yourself. I want to know why."  
  
Illya licked sauce off his thumb. "Of course you do. I am a mystery, I believe you called me. What fun would you have if the mystery solved itself?"  
  
Napoleon was somewhat mollified. "True. I wouldn't want the whole mystery solved. But a lead or a clue to keep me interested..." he hinted.  
  
Illya stood up slowly, in what Napoleon would call a sensuous move on a woman. "What would keep you interested?" he asked as he stretched his arms high over his head until his back cracked.  
  
Napoleon reached for his tea, as his mouth was suddenly dry. "I don't know. Some small nugget...one thing answered truthfully."  
  
Illya's intense stare was on him again, and he held the gaze until Kuryakin dropped his eyes. "Before U.N.C.L.E., there was Alexei." With that quiet statement, Illya picked up his plate and retreated to the kitchen, leaving a completely stunned Napoleon in his wake.  
  
Alexei? A ruler? Relative? Secret agency? General? Town? He'd been better off not knowing! He pulled himself together and offered himself some solace. Illya had given him a name, and a certain time frame to go on, though it spanned nearly 20 years. However, he might be able to narrow it down some. "Who was Alexei?" he called into the kitchen.  
  
Illya returned and held out his hand. "I do not think so, Solo. You wanted a nugget; you have one. Now hand me your plate if you are finished."  
  
_I'm far from finished with you my friend._ "Yes, I am, thank you." He handed his plate over. He frowned after Illya. "I feel pretty useless. Isn't there anything I can do to help?"  
  
"You have given me companionship for an evening. Also, I am performing a valuable service," Illya explained from the kitchen.  
  
"What service?" he asked as his mind filed away the other information.  
  
The blond head popped into the living room. "Protecting U.N.C.L.E.'s finest, of course."  
  
Napoleon groaned.

~~~  
  
Napoleon's sleep was interrupted by the beep of his communicator box. "Solo here."  
  
"Keep a watchful eye, Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly's voice came through sharply. "Two of our men on the street have reported Thrush assaults near you. Alert Mr. Kuryakin immediately."  
  
"Already done, sir," he answered as he glanced over to Illya, standing in the doorway to his bedroom. Illya nodded, a yawn cracking his jaw. "Out."  
  
Kuryakin went immediately to the windows, locked them and checked the streets below. He kept the curtains slightly open but left the lights off. "Our advantage."  
  
Napoleon nodded his agreement and double-checked his Special. He'd had to use half a clip earlier that day but still had a full clip in his jacket pocket, which he rooted around for and placed on the table. He removed his silencer as well and screwed it onto the muzzle.  
  
Illya had his gun in hand. "I will keep watch by the fire escape. Guard the door."  
  
"Like I have a choice," Napoleon grumbled, but sat up straighter.  
  
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen and nothing. Twenty minutes and Napoleon heard a soft thump from the back room. Before he could analyze what it was, the small sound of glass breaking was nearly instantaneous with a dull whump that sank into the pillow at his right elbow. No need to analyze now: Silencers. He shifted to his left and concentrated on the kitchen. Movement. He squeezed off a shot and the figure in black fell to the floor. Another five minutes passed with nothing. "Illya?" he called softly.  
  
As if conjured up, Illya appeared at his side. "I called headquarters. They have men on the streets taking care of what is left of the assault team."  
  
"Were there just two?"  
  
"It appears that way. Are you all right?"  
  
"Fine. You?"  
  
"Fine. But wide awake."  
  
Napoleon had to agree with that as well. The rush of adrenaline was slowly wearing down, but he would have trouble getting back to sleep. "Clean up team?"  
  
"They will be here shortly to take care of our two friends." Illya ghosted through the apartment.  
  
Napoleon went through his report in his head, when a stray thought caused his breath to catch in his throat. Alexei. Before U.N.C.L.E. He hadn't been asking Illya about his life before U.N.C.L.E. He had been asking if women had been a distraction in his past. Who was Alexei, then? A jealous husband? He couldn't just call up headquarters and ask them for Kuryakin's file. He would have to wait to do that himself. But now that he had that information, he decided to see what the reaction would be.  
  
"Alexei was very special to you," he announced softly into the darkness. The blond ghost froze in his tracks, back turned to Napoleon.  
  
There was a horrible pause, and Napoleon had his answer before Illya said very softly, "What makes you think that?"  
  
"Nothing, really." _Your pause answered for me._ "I was just thinking out loud."  
  
"You are up to something," Illya accused. "Now is hardly the time for this."  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."  
  
"They are not all bad," Kuryakin corrected before he seemed to realize what he had revealed. He snapped, "Do you not have anything better to do?"  
  
He shrugged. "I'm mentally filing my report with Waverly. Then there's the suit I must pick up from Del Floria's tomorrow afternoon. I might be able to make my date with Jeanette on Saturday if this rash of Thrush mayhem is stopped by then. And I think I need a haircut. What do you think?"  
  
Illya turned to stare at him a full minute, then said, "I think you need a haircut."  
  
U.N.C.L.E.'s men arrived then, and two hours later, Napoleon and Illya were alone in the apartment once again.  
  
"I believe I will try to go back to sleep. G'night." Napoleon's eyes closed and the next thing he knew, it was daylight.  
  
He pulled himself up and inspected his knee. The brace had helped, but it was still swollen. He grimaced as he tried to flex it. It had gotten stiff --almost as stiff as his neck. For such a comfortable-looking couch, he certainly had a crick.  
  
"How did you sleep?" Kuryakin asked as he passed through on the way to the kitchen.  
  
"I slept," Napoleon acknowledged with a wry grin. "Unfortunately, I think I'm a bit too big for your couch."  
  
"Is something wrong?" Illya asked from the kitchen. Napoleon could just make out a coffeepot filled with water on the stove. Coffee. Good. He could use a strong cup about now.  
  
"Just a pain in my neck- and I'm not referring to you," he teased. "I must have slept on it wrong."  
  
"It is possible," Illya commented as he came into the living room. He held out a pastry and Napoleon took it gratefully. "Though I have never had a problem with the couch before."  
  
"It's comfortable," Napoleon assured him. " _Too_ comfortable. That's the problem. I think I relaxed too much."  
  
"Your muscles are not used to it?"  
  
"Something like that." He winced as he swung his leg off the couch and started to stand.  
  
"Where do you think you're going?" the Russian demanded as he jumped up.  
  
"Bathroom. Unless you want to try the full hospitalization routine here at home."  
  
"Let me help you."  
  
"I can manage just fine," Napoleon waved him aside. He tested his leg carefully, noting that it would hold him without too much pain. "I just wrenched it the wrong way. I'll be fine."  
  
"Not right away. You still need Waverly's permission to return to duty," Illya called after him as he shut the bathroom door.  
  
"I'll have it by the end of the day," he muttered to his reflection. He scrubbed his face, deciding against a shave. He completed the necessities and returned to the couch, where a steaming mug of coffee waited.  
  
"Oooh, thank you," he whispered as he inhaled the roasted scent.  
  
"You are welcome," the Russian noted coolly from the chair.  
  
Napoleon settled back on the couch and sipped at the hot liquid. His lips pursed as he studied his knee. "What do you think: hot or cold?"  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"For the knee. The muscles have tensed up, so I'm thinking hot to ease them. Do you have a wrap or something?"  
  
"What about a hot bath? I do not know about you, but I could use a hot shower after yesterday."  
  
Kuryakin got up a bit slower than he had sat down, and Napoleon realized that his partner was also sore from their fights with Thrush yesterday. "I'll go after you."  
  
"You are the one in pain."  
  
"It's your apartment. You should go first," he insisted. He saw the blond hesitate, so he made shooing motions at him. That brought a wry smile to the Russian's lips.  
  
"I thought I was supposed to be mother henning you."  
  
"I warned you I don't take orders well. Go on; I'll be fine."  
  
Illya did that stare again, the one that unnerved him. He was unsure he'd passed the test until Kuryakin stood up and headed to the bathroom.  
  
The quick scrub Napoleon had done yesterday and this morning had only gotten off the worst of the sweat and grime. He admitted a hot bath _did_ sound good, and he could hardly wait his turn. But he would, because he was a guest in Illya's home. His home...  
  
He listened for the blast of water, then got up and hobbled around carefully. Illya hadn't time to hide any dark, ominous secrets --if he had any-- before Napoleon arrived and the agent in Napoleon needed to know more about the man who had barely spoken to him as of a week ago, but now appeared attached at the hip to him. A strange sensation, much like the feeling he got when Illya stared at him, coiled in his stomach.  
  
Distracted, he put a bit too much pressure on his leg and hissed at the pain through his knee. It focused him, and he remembered why he had gotten up in the first place. Keeping one ear alert for Illya, he did a quick but thorough scan of the living area. Nothing of interest there, and nowhere to hide anything that was. He hobbled into the kitchen and noted it was similar to his own. Efficient and tidy, but where he had a small wine rack set along one counter, Kuryakin had a...fondue pot? He was distracted from the image of Illya dipping bits of bread into cheese by a soft whine from his stomach, reminding him that he'd only had one small pastry for breakfast. He opened the refrigerator in search of food.  
  
Twenty minutes later when Illya entered the kitchen, Napoleon was just taking bread out of the toaster. "Have a seat. Hope you don't mind omelets."  
  
"Solo, what are you doing?" the baffled Russian asked.  
  
"You aren't the only one who can cook, my friend."  
  
"You are going to aggravate your knee even more," Illya scowled.  
  
"And you are going to aggravate _me_ even more if you don't sit down and eat. I've managed to survive more serious injuries and still take care of myself." His tone softened. "And it's the least I can do to repay your hospitality."  
  
Illya immediately went to a cabinet and removed plates and glasses, and Napoleon would have bet money that he'd embarrassed his new partner.  
  
"You didn't answer me," he teased lightly.  
  
That earned him a puzzled look. "About what?"  
  
"Whether you like omelets or not."  
  
"I like them fine. Did you find everything all right?"  
  
"I am aware of how a refrigerator is generally laid out. Here." Napoleon lifted the pan from the stove as Illya held out a plate, and he scooped the fluffy omelet onto it. He poured the rest of the egg mix into the skillet and put two more slices of bread in the toaster. "Am I missing anything?" he asked as Illya took a bite.  
  
The Russian looked up at him, and those blue eyes twinkled. "An apron."  
  
He threw Illya a disgusted look. "Just eat your eggs. And uncover the bacon, would you?"  
  
They finished off breakfast and the dishes, and Napoleon was more than ready for a bath. "Could you bring some clean clothes? I'll start the water." He hobbled into the small bathroom and plugged the drain. The water was fairly hot, and steam immediately started to fog the mirror.  
  
"Are you going to sit there all day?"  
  
He jumped at Illya's question. With the water running, he hadn't heard Kuryakin come in. "No." He held his arms out and Illya dropped his clothes into them. The small toiletry bag was placed a bit more carefully on top. "Thanks."  
  
"Can you manage?"  
  
Napoleon blinked. "I've been taking baths since I was very small. I think all that practice paid off."  
  
"Yell if you need someone to wash your back." With that statement, the supposedly dour Russian's mouth curved up in a smile. Napoleon blinked again, and the door was closing behind Kuryakin. Wash his back? What did _that_ mean? And why was that strange feeling back? Deciding it was the pain, he gingerly stood up, deposited the clean clothes on the sink, discarded his dirty clothes to the floor, and sank into the warm water. His abused muscles protested for a few minutes, then started to relax as the warmth seeped in. He sighed and leaned back, content to just close his eyes for a moment.  
  
"Napoleon!"  
  
"Huh?" He sat upright and splashed water onto the floor. "What?"  
  
"You have been in there over an hour. Are you...is everything all right?"  
  
"Yes, yes. I just fell asleep. I'll be out in a few minutes." Fell asleep, just like a baby in its mother's arms. He hoped he wasn't getting soft. He scrubbed himself vigorously and quickly as the water had turned cool. Feeling much better, he dried off and got dressed. Opting to skip shaving again as his knee was starting to throb, he opened the door and nearly stumbled into Kuryakin.  
  
"I thought you might need...let me get your dirty clothes off the floor," the Russian muttered.  
  
"I have my dirty clothes," Napoleon returned with a wry smile. He held them up into Illya's line of sight as proof. If he didn't know better, he'd say the fair-haired man was blushing. There was a hint of color on his cheeks, but nothing like he'd expected. All the blondes he knew turned bright red when embarrassed. Illya was turning out to be one surprise after another. A mystery to be sure, but one Napoleon intended to solve.  
  
"Could I get to the couch now?" he asked lightly.  
  
"Do you think you can make it?" Illya retorted as he stepped aside.  
  
He was surprised at how easily Kuryakin seemed to take teasing. It was like they had fallen into a pattern already, yet they had only been partnered less than a week. Was this the same man who avoided everyone at U.N.C.L.E.? The one rumored to have no heart at all, merely a living machine with superior intelligence? It was just hard to get inside, and the walls were of Kuryakin's own building. Napoleon wondered why he had gotten through. Maybe he was the only one who dared try.  
  
_Before U.N.C.L.E., there was Alexei_ whispered through his mind. Who was Alexei, and what happened? His logical mind linked the two -- Kuryakin's walls and this Alexei. Maybe Alexei had gotten through as well. But what did that have to do with his love life before U.N.C.L.E.? Maybe they had fought over a woman? Wouldn't be the first time. Yet he sensed there was a lot more than that. He didn't know why, but he trusted his instincts; and his instincts told him that the subject of Alexei was very thin ice to be treading on.  
  
He sat and propped his leg along the length of the couch. "It's doing much better. Swelling's gone down." He opened his communicator and signaled Headquarters. "Open channel D please."  
  
"What do you think you are doing?" Kuryakin demanded.  
  
Napoleon winked but didn't answer. That seemed to fluster the other man, as he turned and went into the bedroom.  
  
"Channel D open."  
  
Napoleon smiled as he recognized the voice. Jeanette. He was about to make a flirtatious comment to her, but something held him back. "Mr. Waverly, please. Solo calling."  
  
"Hello, Napoleon," Jeanette practically purred. "I'll patch you right through. I'm looking forward to Saturday night."  
  
He grimaced, remembering the redhead's fondness for dancing. Hopefully his knee would be up to it. "So am I," he muttered.  
  
Waverly's voice came over the communicator. "Yes, Mr. Solo. How are you today?"  
  
"Feeling much better, sir."  
  
"Good, good. And how is Mr. Kuryakin?"  
  
"Anxious to get out in the field, sir." He held his breath, hoping Waverly wouldn't question why one agent was speaking for another. A beep from the other room confirmed his thoughts; Waverly wanted to double-check.  
  
"Mr. Solo, is Mr. Kuryakin with you?"  
  
"I am right here, sir," Illya announced formally as he came back into the room with his own communicator open. He was staring hard at Napoleon, trying to figure out what he was up to, he supposed. Well, it would be obvious enough in about ten seconds.  
  
"Mr. Solo tells me you're ready to return to the field."  
  
An eyebrow raised and the stare grew more intense. Napoleon broke out in a cold sweat. "Does he?"  
  
"Is this inaccurate, Mr. Kuryakin?"  
  
"No sir, it is very accurate. I am anxious to return to Headquarters. However, Mr. Solo is in no condition to do so."  
  
"I never said I wanted to return to duty...sir," he tacked on belatedly, almost forgetting who he was actually speaking to. "I don't need a babysitter anymore. I'm perfectly able to care for myself for the rest of the day."  
  
"Thrush hasn't eased in their efforts, Mr. Solo. We're getting in reports every hour of other attacks. It seems they are going after every agent we possess."  
  
"All the more reason to have every available agent in the field, sir. Illya is needed out there."  
  
"And so are you," Kuryakin's voice broke in determinedly. "And if you are dead, then that is one less agent we have."  
  
"An excellent point, Mr. Kuryakin. However, if Mr. Solo thinks he is capable of caring for himself, who are we to dispute that?"  
  
"Thank you, sir," Napoleon sighed gratefully. The sooner Kuryakin was back in the field, the better he'd feel. He didn't like Thrushies in his part of the woods. And from the sounds of it, the woods were swarming with them.  
  
"Very well, sir," Illya capitulated, but Napoleon sensed the Russian wasn't very happy with it. "Could I get an update?"  
  
"Of course. Thrush agents made five other attacks last night on our Section One and Two agents. Two were injured. Eight Thrush dead, one currently being interrogated. Today, the reports are sporadic, as agents don't have time to report in regularly. But it sounds like Thrush has expanded their attack base to include retired U.N.C.L.E. agents, specifically Section One. Three were hit in the last two days. Okana is dead, Hernandez in the hospital."  
  
"Section One...sir, have you any reports on Macedonia?"  
  
"The country?"  
  
"The agent."  
  
Waverly was silent for several moments, giving Napoleon time to wonder at Illya. Who was Macedonia? Retired Section One...his gaze flew to the window. The neighbor with the Doberman?  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Kuryakin. There have been no reports about her since this mess started," Waverly reported back.  
  
"Sir, she lives in the building across from me. We are acquainted. I would like to check on her."  
  
"By all means. Then report into Headquarters. Out."  
  
Illya absently nodded at the communicator then closed it up. Napoleon watched the quick, efficient moves as Kuryakin retrieved his gun, two clips, and slipped on his jacket.  
  
He checked his own gun and announced, "I'm coming with you," as he stood up.  
  
"You are in no condition," Illya dismissed him gruffly.  
  
He limped quickly over to Kuryakin. "If she's dead already, I'll just come back here and count the cracks in the ceiling. If not, then she'll need protection. You can't do that and go back on the streets. But I can sit with her and shoot anyone who shoots first."  
  
"But--"  
  
"Illya, please. I'm almost healed. I can hear. I can shoot. I've done the protective custody routine dozens of times." He suddenly straightened. "And as senior officer, I'm making it an order."  
  
"You are a pompous bastard, aren't you?" Illya sighed, but nodded in agreement. "I cannot fault your logic. However, if she is dead, then you have to take the Doberman." He opened the door and disappeared through it, leaving a spluttering Napoleon in his wake.  
  
"I can't have a dog. It's not in my lease," he said as he entered the elevator. Illya pushed the ground floor button.  
  
"He is a large dog, but very loyal. If you overlook the hair all over your suits, it should be a very lovely relationship."  
  
Illya was teasing. Two could play that game. "I wouldn't want to deprive you of that relationship, Illya. Your bird could use a companion."  
  
"Sylvester would hardly notice."  
  
"You think so? Oh, I don't know about that. Animals are very sensitive creatures. Why, a lady I dated once had this cockatiel..."  
  
"I was joking, Solo."  
  
"Beg pardon?" Napoleon pretended to be startled. He had barely restrained his grin, but it faded completely as he caught the look in Illya's eyes. He didn't think the joke had gone too far, but obviously, the Russian did. Could he actually be worried he'd upset him? Napoleon could identify a joke, even if it was masked by the perfect poker face.  
  
"I was joking," he repeated quietly.  
  
Napoleon offered his partner a soft smile. "I know, Illya. It's all right; I don't mind."  
  
Kuryakin straightened and his features settled into their customary glare. "However, I was serious about the dog," he commented gruffly as the elevator reached the first floor and the doors opened.  
  
"So was I," Napoleon countered as he followed the Russian across the street.  
  
They remained quiet on the ride up to Macedonia's floor and to her door. Both agents pulled their guns.  
  
Kuryakin knocked as he announced himself. "Macedonia, are you in there?"  
  
They heard a click --whether of a lock or a gun, neither was sure and they dodged to opposite sides of the door. A small revolver followed a white head poked out of the door. "Illya?"  
  
The Russian visibly relaxed. "Macedonia. There is a problem."  
  
"I know. Come--" her words halted and the gun came up sharply to point directly at Napoleon's chest. "Who's he?"  
  
"Macedonia, I would like you to meet Napoleon Solo. Section One, Number Two."  
  
The gun lowered and the little old lady beamed. "Well, I'll be. Come on in. It's dangerous in the halls."  
  
Napoleon went in first, eyes sweeping the room automatically. The Doberman lay curled on a chair, dozing peacefully. He couldn't help but smile. "Nice dog you got there."  
  
"Who, Petey? He's harmless. Petey! Up you go." She patted the dog on the flank, and he yawned, stretched, and finally jumped down off the chair. "Do have a seat." She put the gun on the table and sat down, and the dog curled at her feet instantly.  
  
"Thank you." Napoleon settled carefully onto the couch, stretching his leg out before him. Illya sat next to him and leaned forward.  
  
"Macedonia, have you heard the reports?"  
  
"Not complete, no. Just that Thrush has gone loco."  
  
"Loco, as you put it, is just about correct," Napoleon interjected. "They're after every agent they can find."  
  
"Even retired agents," Illya added. "I fear you may be on their list."  
  
"They're after retired agents? Nothing better to do, I suppose. Or they want to make a clean sweep and get all U.N.C.L.E. out of their way at once. No respect anymore, that's the problem," she huffed, completely unconcerned for her own safety.  
  
"We don't know their plans yet, but we are currently interrogating an agent and hope to have something definite soon." Something about Macedonia made Napoleon want to protect her. It might have been her frail stature, but there was fire in her eyes. It would take persuasion, and lots of it, for her to accept protection from them.  
  
As if he read Napoleon's mind, Illya quietly stated, "The streets are not safe for us. We are being attacked in our homes."  
  
That seemed to shake her up a little, though she did a fairly good job of hiding it. Once an agent...  
  
Napoleon leaned forward and threw her a thousand-watt grin. "Macedonia, I would like to offer my services to you."  
  
She laughed delightedly and blushed, the nice rosy shade that he had expected on Illya's fair skin. "Napoleon Solo, your reputation precedes you. I don't think I could handle your 'services' at my age!"  
  
Heat started at his chest and worked its way up his neck to his face. Damn that Russian! Gossiping about agents who weren't there to defend themselves. He opened his mouth to correct her, when said damned Russian leapt into the conversation.  
  
"Macedonia, I am shocked. Napoleon was only offering to protect your lovely...home." He shot a sideways glance at Napoleon, whose gaze was busy trying to bore a hole through Kuryakin's head.  
  
"My 'home' has been well-protected for years," she laughed.  
  
Napoleon finally recovered his voice. "Macedonia, three retired agents were hit in the last forty-eight hours. One is dead, another in the hospital. We-- I want to protect you."  
  
"Dead? Who?" she asked quietly. She had gone a little pale.  
  
Illya narrowed his eyes at him, and Napoleon wondered what he said. Waverly was forever drilling 'agents are expendable' into their heads; surely she understood that. There was a look in Illya's eyes; one he had seen in other agents before...when their partner had been killed. He suddenly felt guilty.  
  
Illya's voice was almost a whisper as he replied, "Okana."  
  
"Oh, Raymond," she whispered. She got up and went to the window, and Napoleon made a move to follow her, but Illya's hand on his arm stopped him.  
  
"Partners for twenty years," he murmured just loud enough for Napoleon to hear him.  
  
The guilt grew until Napoleon felt the need to apologize. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."  
  
She fluttered a hand at him, but still gazed out the window. "It was a long time ago. I wouldn't expect newer agents to know who was paired with whom."  
  
"All the same...I am sorry."  
  
She turned and smiled at him, though it wavered a bit. "Thank you, young man." She returned to her chair, and Petey curled around her feet again. "We had a good partnership. Good lives. I'm sure he went down fighting."  
  
"He did. Two Thrush agents went with him," Illya informed her.  
  
"Good for him."  
  
Napoleon leaned forward. "Macedonia, I meant what I said. I want to protect you. One agent to another. Would you permit me to stay?"  
  
"It's been a long time since I was an agent. Even longer since my life was put in danger." Her gaze fell to the old-fashioned revolver sitting on the table. "I haven't had to use that in over twenty years. I don't even recall if it has bullets."  
  
"It is loaded," Illya interrupted her monologue. "I did it myself last time I was here."  
  
"You crafty Russian," she admonished him. "I said I didn't want to keep a loaded gun in the house."  
  
"And I said if you had one, you may as well be prepared to use it. And now you may have to. My partner," she glanced to Napoleon, and the American felt a wave of uneasiness wash over him, "has been injured slightly and cannot immediately return to duty. I cannot watch him, as I am needed on the streets. However, he is willing to stay with you and watch your back. Mr. Waverly has approved this arrangement, but I have one thing to ask. Watch his back for me," he added in a low voice.  
  
Napoleon was shocked. No, that was too mild a word. He was stunned. The pleading tone in Illya's voice collided against his admittedly changing image of the Russian. He rolled Kuryakin's words around his head for awhile, finally coming to the conclusion that Illya was emotionally manipulating her. They had just informed her that her partner of twenty years was dead, and here Illya asks her to watch after _his_ partner. Very sneaky Russian. Napoleon was impressed and frightened a bit by the manipulation. To use her emotions like that without batting an eye took skill...and a coldness that Napoleon had used on occasion, but always left him feeling dirty. He didn't like to use women that way.  
  
"Macedonia, please. Let him stay."  
  
Her gaze shifted from Illya to him and back again. She suddenly straightened her shoulders. "If he needs a place to stay, he's more than welcome to my spare room."  
  
"Thank you," Illya responded after a heartbeat.  
  
"Yes, thank you," Napoleon repeated, though he couldn't quite smile. Whatever the pretense, they all knew why he was there.  
  
"Now!" she clapped her hands together loudly, sending Illya's hand to his holster and Napoleon to duck his head.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry boys," she apologized sincerely. "I didn't mean to...that is, you certainly have good reflexes, don't you?"  
  
"Have to, ma'am." Before he could say any more, Illya interrupted him.  
  
"With all those women chasing him, he has to keep ahead of them somehow."  
  
She laughed again. "I bet he does. Handsome thing you. Have you eaten?"  
  
"Yes, thank you," Napoleon answered, but was shocked by Illya's answer.  
  
"I am a bit hungry."  
  
"Let me get you something. I'll be right back."  
  
He leaned over and whispered, "Was there something wrong with my breakfast?"  
  
Illya smirked. "It was very filling. However, Macedonia makes the best muffins I have ever tasted. I refuse to risk my life today without having one."  
  
Napoleon heard the rest of Kuryakin's statement, but frowned as he asked, "Filling?"  
  
It was Illya's turn to frown. "Yes, filling."  
  
"Not good, not adequate, but _filling_. Are you saying...?"  
  
Illya exasperated, "Napoleon..."  
  
Their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of the famous muffins, and Napoleon had to admit, they smelled wonderful.  
Illya ate one there, took one for the road, and left for headquarters. Napoleon smiled at Macedonia then winced as he shifted on the couch.  
  
"Illya said you were hurt. What happened?"  
  
"A fight yesterday. I twisted my knee," he recalled Illya's description, "as I attempted a flying kick to their heads."  
  
"Thrush?"  
  
"Who else. It's all right," he informed her as she knelt by his side.  
  
"It hurts like the dickens, doesn't it?" She leveled her gaze on his, and he found himself nodding.  
  
"It's not so bad..." he tried to protest, but she was already off in another part of the house. She returned with a compress and instructions for him to tuck his pants leg up. She fastened it around his knee and stretched his leg out on the couch.  
  
"There. You stay off that leg as much as possible today, and you'll be on your feet tomorrow. Might not be 100%, but not enough to matter."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"How about some lemonade? Tea?"  
  
"No, thank you. I'm fine, really." It took him several minutes to realize Macedonia wanted to talk to him. He scooted himself up on the couch and smiled at her. "What do you want to ask me?"  
  
"Agents are all alike, aren't they?" she sighed. "Never can pull the wool over their eyes." She cut right to the chase. "Illya never mentioned a partner before."  
  
He had a feeling that was going to be asked. "Mr. Waverly sent us on assignment together three days ago. We've been pretty much in each other's space every second since then."  
  
"Three days! But he said..." her voice faltered and her lips clamped together in a thin white line. "He used me, didn't he?"  
  
"For your own protection," Napoleon tried to soothe her. "And mine. Illya brought me back to his apartment yesterday because of my knee. I was damn resentful of being taken off duty and watched over. But last night, three Thrush agents broke into his place. I don't know if it was because of me, him, or both of us, but they didn't get very far."  
  
"You've been partnered for only three days?"  
  
"We've worked together in the past in groups, but this is our first time on our own, yes."  
  
She studied him closely. "Complete opposites, too. Waverly sure picks 'em."  
  
"Beg pardon?"  
  
"Waverly. Picking agents to pair up. Did it with Raymond and me. He was the loud, flamboyant one; I was the quiet, sharp-witted one. You could say the brawn and the brains." She winked. "And beauty."  
  
Napoleon tucked his hand against his cheek and asked, "Tell me about him."  
  
He spent the better part of the afternoon listening to stories of an U.N.C.L.E. from a different era. Of Macedonia and her partner, Raymond Okana, and the special bond they shared. Her descriptions of them both reminded Napoleon eerily of Illya and himself. They were thrown together, Macedonia and Raymond, much the same as he and Illya had been. Macedonia had the dry wit, while Raymond was a sparkle that refused to be dampened down, even when Thrush captured them. They had rescued each other numerous times, though Macedonia admitted sheepishly, she needed rescuing just a 'tad bit more.' Napoleon was surprised when she admitted that she and Raymond had been sleeping together for years.  
  
"It was completely taboo back then for an unmarried woman to have sex. My, how times have changed. Raymond didn't want to see me hurt, so we were extremely discreet. I don't know if Waverly ever knew, or the boss before him, but they never said anything to me. Our performance never suffered; in fact, we improved in some regards. Unfortunately, we did have our blind spots. His was quite obvious; I was a woman. He never wanted Thrush to get their hands on me. Whenever I did get captured though, I was treated with respect. I only ever feared for my life, which I knew Raymond would save eventually. My weakness was watching him suffer. Thrush realized this after awhile, so they would use us as bait against one another. Capture me, they got him, tortured him, and I'd crack. Capture him, I'd get caught, and they'd use me to get to him. That's the real danger. Not out there on the streets, but in here," she tapped her chest. "You let people get to you. The innocents, other agents, your partner. They wheedle their way into your heart, and Thrush will eventually find them. Take care, Napoleon. Don't get attached."  
  
"I'm trying not to," he murmured, then cleared his throat. He remembered his sick feeling when Illya was taken by Thrush not two days ago. His feelings when he stepped into the room and saw Illya dangling a foot off the floor, pain etched in his features. It was a scenario he never wanted repeated, but in their line of work, it was inevitable.  
  
She regarded him a moment and he wondered what his face revealed. He was good at covering his real feelings; years of practice had honed the skill to near-perfection.  
  
She gave him a knowing smile. "You might be trying, but I hate to break it to you, you're already attached."  
  
"I am?" He sat up and studied her, but her eyes revealed nothing.  
  
"You're being used, too," she abruptly switched gears. "Your partner dumped you on me."  
  
"Actually, I dumped myself," he admitted. "I was going stir-crazy in his apartment. Regardless of that, we don't like to see our kind being hunted. Once an agent; always an agent. Retired or no, my assignment is to protect you." He added with a smile, "And yours is to watch my back."  
  
She started to smile, then her features went ashen. Napoleon heard a subtle click beyond the door and whipped out his Special. The silencer was already on, but Thrush hadn't been worried about keeping quiet lately. Macedonia curled her hand around her revolver and went to one side of the door. Napoleon waved her further back, and he aimed dead center of the door. Before he could fire, wood splinters flew through the air as the door shattered. Napoleon rolled to the floor and fired his Special, hearing one satisfying thud beyond the gaping hole. Macedonia fired over his head, but he couldn't check if she had hit whoever it was. A shot winged off the table near his head, and he decided to move for better cover. He rolled under the table and caught sight of Macedonia swinging her gun toward the door. A Thrush was coming through, and Napoleon pumped a few rounds into him. He kept his gun at the ready, waiting for more reinforcements.  
  
Silence descended. He rested his forehead against the floor and caught his breath. Adrenaline was rushing through his system, and there was a slight tremor in his hands. Three Thrush agents to dispatch of one ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent. Did Thrush think they were all superheroes? How could they protect all their agents from random attacks?  
  
His head came up as he heard footsteps pounding down the corridor. His grip tightened on the gun and he wondered at Thrush's thoroughness. Surely one retired agent wasn't worth all this?  
  
The footsteps rounded the corner and he flexed his fingers involuntarily. A figure dived through the door. Napoleon aimed, and at the last second, fired his shot wide.  
  
The man rolled and came up, his own Special aimed directly at him. "Napoleon!" Illya cried as he lowered his gun. He was panting heavily and sweat rolled down his face. Napoleon guessed he had run up the stairs in his haste to get to the apartment. "Are you all right?"  
  
Napoleon was about to answer that they were _both_ all right, when he caught Illya's wide-eyed gaze. He was staring directly at him. Only at him. The question was _meant_ for him. "I'm fine," Napoleon assured his partner through a dry mouth. He held that intense stare as long as he could, then had to glance away. His eyes fell to another U.N.C.L.E. agent who had just arrived. Agent LeBon, seeing that Napoleon was being looked after, went immediately to the downed Thrush agents. "Check on Macedonia," he whispered.  
  
Illya blinked and looked around, seeming to notice for the first time that the apartment was a shambles and there was an older lady holding a very frightened Doberman in her lap. He walked over and knelt by the woman. "Macedonia. Are you hurt?"  
  
"I'm fine. Petey's a bit shaken up, but I don't think he was hit." She glanced around the apartment, and Napoleon saw the slightly out-of-her-element look in her eyes. He sympathized. He pulled himself to a sitting position and tested his knee. Thankfully when he rolled off the couch, he landed on his left knee and not his right. The compress had slipped down his leg, so he took it off and rolled his pants leg back down. Macedonia's voice drew his attention back to her and his partner.  
  
"We were just sitting here, Illya. Having a conversation. I heard a noise, and the next thing I knew, all hell had broken loose. Get these bastards." Her voice hardened instantly, all frailty gone from her frame. "Make them pay for what they're doing to us."  
  
"We will," Illya assured her, but his gaze was on Napoleon.  
  
"We will," Napoleon echoed, liking the sound of that.  
  
~~~~  
  
Napoleon breathed deeply, trying to settle his nerves. He was still a bit jumpy after the firefight, not to mention Kuryakin's strange behavior. After Illya had checked on Macedonia, Waverly was briefed on what had occurred. Napoleon made the suggestion that all retired agents be brought to Headquarters for protection and Waverly agreed. All other agents were ordered to report to Headquarters for further instructions.  
  
Napoleon hoped this wouldn't go on much longer. Thrush had to give up at some point. They couldn't take out every U.N.C.L.E. agent one by one. That was sheer madness. Then again, whoever was at the heart of this full-scale war against U.N.C.L.E. had to be mad. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and tried to think of more pleasant things. "Macedonia is an interesting lady," he remarked as they walked out of her building. He nodded to the sweeper team on their way up to Macedonia's apartment. "One of the first female field agents."  
  
"Yes," Illya mused quietly, seemingly caught up in his own thoughts.  
  
He was distracted by his own thoughts as well. How to broach the subject of Kuryakin's strange behavior? He had never seen Illya from the other side; the deadly aimed gun, the quick reflexes, and the intense, unforgiving stare that proclaimed 'you are dead'. He found himself oddly excited by it. If he were truthful, he had been mesmerized by it. Almost too mesmerized, and his shot had barely gone wide. Luckily Illya's reflexes were as good as his own were, or he was sure he would've had a few air holes in the chest. Then there was the entire matter of Illya's concern. Granted, Napoleon had stayed on the floor like an idiot, but he wasn't sure that his knee hadn't been further injured and he was flat out unwilling to move. Coming down from an adrenaline rush was hard on the body. But he was unable to tear his eyes away from Illya's. The Russian seemed to be examining him from the inside out, checking for bullet holes or other injuries...but there had been something else. Something that had caused him to look away. Something he felt he wasn't ready for just yet. But it was something that intrigued him.  
  
He took another deep breath and settled his suit properly on his shoulders. Now wasn't the time for personal reflection. There were Thrushies all over New York City carrying U.N.C.L.E. death warrants and they needed to be stopped. But even as he thought that, he had to know one thing. "She told you about her and Raymond, didn't she? That's why you didn't want me saying anything about his death."  
  
"Yes," his partner answered distractedly.  
  
"Did she tell you about their partnership?" he asked nonchalantly, hoping his meaning came across.  
  
Those sharp eyes were on him in an instant. "What do you mean?"  
  
He held up his hand to stave off the argument he could see building. "I have nothing against it. I'm all for agents being allowed to marry, in fact. But not everyone agrees."  
  
"No, they do not." They walked in silence for awhile longer, then Illya asked, "Why do you care whether agents can marry or not? It is not like you have ever expressed any interest."  
  
Napoleon slid his hands into his pants pockets and stared up at the sky. "In marriage for myself, no. But if I see two people in love who want to get married and they can't because of a rule...I don't understand that."  
  
"You truly surprise me, Napoleon Solo," Illya muttered as he shook his head.  
  
"May I say the same for you." Napoleon saluted jauntily.  
  
He could have sworn he saw some of Illya's defenses come up. "Why?"  
  
The lightheartedness left Napoleon's expression. "For caring more about a three day-old partnership than the life of an retired U.N.C.L.E. agent and her dog."  
  
Kuryakin started to protest, "I did not..."  
  
"Illya." Napoleon stopped walking and turned to his partner. "I know. I saw it in your eyes. You can't hide it." He saw the defenses snap into place this time. Walls upon walls. What had happened to his partner?  
  
"I would hate to lose you, just as I was beginning to make progress at breaking you in," was the smart reply.  
  
"Who hurt you so badly that you can't accept that you have feelings?" he mused, just loud enough so Kuryakin would hear him. "Was it Alexei?"  
  
The instant the words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. The color drained from Illya’s face and he looked as if Napoleon had physically punched him.  
  
He reached out and squeezed Illya's arm. His hand was abruptly and none-too-gently removed. "I didn't mean that. I don't know anything about Alexei, and I shouldn't have said anything..."  
  
"No, you should not have." If Napoleon had thought Illya cold before, now he was sheer ice. Words slipped off his tongue, frozen and harsh. Yet incredibly, with barely contained emotion. Kuryakin was faintly trembling, his hands curled into fists. Whoever Alexei was, he meant a great deal to Illya.  
  
Napoleon said carefully, "It's none of my business who did this to you, but it obviously bothers you."  
  
Illya's chilled words practically frosted the air between them. "No, it is not your business. Do not try to dissect me. I am not some lab animal."  
  
The quieter Kuryakin got, the louder Napoleon found himself talking. "I'm not trying to dissect you. I'm trying to understand you!"  
  
"Then stop trying to understand me," Illya ground out from his clenched teeth. "What you see is what you get, isn't that what you say? I am a cold, heartless bastard of a man with no feelings whatsoever."  
  
Napoleon stared after the rigid back retreating quickly from him in stunned silence. He couldn't make his feet follow Illya, nor would his voice cooperate and call him back. By the time his mouth connected with his brain, Illya had reached the elevator. The Russian disappeared inside, keeping out of view as the doors closed.  
  
~~~~  
  
Napoleon pushed himself into his own apartment with a barely restrained grunt of pain. Walking down the corridor had aggravated his knee, and now he fell to the couch and rested for a few moments. As he closed his eyes, all he saw were Illya's eyes snapping with anger. It was clear the Russian was trying to push him away, trying to get him angry enough to walk away and give up. Even so, Napoleon got the feeling that despite the attempts, Kuryakin _wanted_ his friendship. Even through the anger, though the harsh words, there had been a desperation there...but why? Did Illya truly believe he had no feelings? Or that they weren't important? Did he honestly believe that, or had someone drilled it into his head? Maybe his partner was more emotionally messed up than he initially realized.  
  
He pushed himself to a sitting position and ran his hands through his hair. That wasn't fair. He didn't know Illya well enough to judge his emotional state. But in order to find out more about Illya's past, he had to get into U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. And in order to get into Headquarters, he had to be put back on active duty. And in order to do that...he rubbed his gritty eyes and contemplated the possibility of Medical signing off on him. He was almost positive they'd put him on restrictive duty, which would at least let him stay in HQ, but not active in the field. It would suffice for now. He limped into the bathroom to clean himself up -- again. He called a taxi and waited just inside the building doorway, then made his way as quickly as possible to the cab. He checked the license against the person driving, took quick inventory of the inside of the car, and decided it was safe. Thrush wasn't being subtle the last few days, but a timely car accident would get rid of him. The ride was uneventful, and Del Floria nodded at him as he triggered the secret door into U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters.  
  
As the receptionist was pinning on his badge, the panel before her buzzed.  
  
"Yes, sir?" she asked as she winked at Napoleon.  
  
"Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly's voice greeted him. "Good to see you up and about. Report to Medical and then I'd like to see you."  
  
"Yes, sir," Napoleon answered brightly. He returned the wink to the woman, more out of habit than anything, then headed down to Medical. A quick examination recommended that he stay out of the field for at least twenty-four more hours, then he could return to full duty. Until then, he was released to stay in Headquarters.  
  
He took the elevator up to Waverly's office and offered a more typically expected greeting to the secretary.  
  
"It feels like ages since we've talked," he purred at her.  
  
"Time must pass slowly for you, Mr. Solo," she replied with a smile. "It was only yesterday morning."  
  
"Any time apart from you is an eternity," he murmured.  
  
A loud throat-clearing drew his attention. Mr. Waverly stood in his doorway, eyebrows raised. "Mr. Solo, if you could drag yourself away, we do have important matters to discuss."  
  
Napoleon straightened his suit automatically and followed Waverly into the office. He gave a more in-depth report of the attack at Illya's and at Macedonia's, in addition to minor details he had learned during the few interrogations he performed the other day. After a few questions from Waverly, Napoleon was instructed to help coordinate the reports that were coming in from the streets.  
  
Deciding to get his personal questions out of the way first, Napoleon detoured to Personnel on his way to his office. He nodded to the clerk on duty and requested Kuryakin's file. She handed it over with a smile. He smiled back and went into one of the privacy booths to the left and locked the door behind him. He flipped open the file and was surprised to find only two typed pages. Normally agents had documentation outlining as much of their past as possible. The first page listed date and place of birth, parents, relatives, education, degrees, and date he joined U.N.C.L.E.. The second page was the one that drew his attention. Where there should have been details there was only the typed statement, "Section I/I Eyes Only. Authorization Clearance Theta." Theta? What was in Kuryakin's past that would warrant a section Chief or higher authorization code? Had Waverly submitted it, or had the Soviets demanded it? His curiosity burned brighter than ever.  
  
He read what little he had more carefully. Born in Kiev, Russia in 1933, parents killed when he was five, raised by his paternal grandmother Olga, served one year in the Russian Navy right out of secondary education, attended the Sorbonne and Cambridge, double degrees: bachelor’s and master's in five years, graduated Survival School in '56, applied and admitted into Section Two that same year...he laid the file down with a sigh. He didn't know what he was expecting to find; Alexei's involvement with Illya spelled out in detail? Even a mention of him would have been amazing. However, he could eliminate some possibilities. Illya had said that Alexei was before U.N.C.L.E.. He opened the door and requested the list of attendees of the Survival School in '56. Scanning the list of those dropped and the graduates, he didn't notice anyone else from the Soviet Union, or anyone named Alexei. One possibility eliminated. So, Alexei had to be in Illya's life before '56.  
  
He closed the files and handed them back to the clerk. He offered her a brief smile then walked down to his office. He sifted through the files on his desk and took care of the immediate concerns. The rest he left for another time. He headed down to communications to help with the incoming reports. Maybe he could be useful there.  
  
~~~  
  
Napoleon rubbed the back of his neck as he entered his apartment. He had spent the better part of the day in Communications coordinating the incoming reports. Then he and the cryptography department tried to make sense of the chaos Thrush had created with little success.  
  
He clicked on the lights and pulled off his jacket. He reached to drape it over the chair when he was blindsided from the left. His shoulder hit the wall as a blur rammed into him. He reached up instinctively to fight the intruder off but his hands were captured in a strong grasp. His entire body thudded against the wall as he was turned, his hands pressed tightly up against the wall near his head. He banged his head on the wall behind him, bringing the face before him into sharp focus.  
  
Ice blue eyes. They were the first things he saw. He didn't need to see the blond hair to recognize his partner. "Illya!" he exclaimed. "Wha-"  
  
"You were digging into my records," the Russian accused.  
  
He wasn't surprised Kuryakin knew. Illya was up for promotion to Head of Section Two; he didn't get to that position by being careless. If someone had requested Kuryakin's files, he undoubtedly had Personnel inform him.  
  
Napoleon's instincts screamed that a lie now would shatter their newfound trust. "Yes," he answered truthfully. He held Illya's gaze, getting pulled in by the intensity shining from their icy depths. Something wasn't quite right. There were cracks in the ice, enough so that Napoleon swore he saw deep, raw emotion below the surface.  
  
"Why?" Illya demanded as he leaned closer, pinning him with his gaze. Fingers tightened around his wrists, then loosened. Napoleon's hands fell to his sides, but Illya's remained against the wall next to his head. Blocking him in without touching him.  
  
Napoleon's head spun and he remembered he had a question to answer. "I-I wanted to know about Alexei. Who he was. Why he hurt you."  
  
Emotions flickered in Illya's eyes, too quick for Napoleon to catalog each one. "He did not hurt me. Not in the way you think." Kuryakin lowered his head just a fraction, enough to hide his eyes. Napoleon found himself staring at his lips as his partner spoke softly.  
  
"I served with Alexei in the navy. He was...arrested."  
  
Napoleon didn't dare interrupt. Illya's voice was actually choked with emotion, and it was so quiet that he had to lean forward to hear.  
  
Kuryakin took a shaky breath. "Taken from our bunkhouse in the middle of the night. They had him three days. Charged with treason. He could barely stand as they pronounced him guilty and demanded to know the other name. He gave... a lie...to save...."  
  
Illya's voice faded to nothing, and Napoleon processed everything quickly. Treason in the Soviet Union was a death sentence. Another name meant that someone else was involved. His gut twisted even tighter. "Did he lie to save you?" he asked quietly. His own voice startled him as it shattered the silence that had descended.  
  
"Yes," came the hoarsely whispered reply. "He gave them another name. I hated him for it. I should have died with him."  
  
The warmth of Illya's body near his sent confused signals to his brain. Kuryakin was slightly shorter than he was, but he found himself unable to move, mesmerized by the incredible outpouring from his heretofore stoic partner. He had moved instinctively closer to hear the choked words better, and now found himself being practically hugged by the Russian. Unthinking, he asked quietly, "Why was the charge of treason brought against him in the first place?"  
  
Illya's head came up slowly until his eyes met Napoleon's. Prussian blue sparked with intense, passionate emotion: a challenge presented itself in those depths. Lips that were less than an inch from his own declared softly, "Alexei was my lover."  
  
Lover. Treason. _Lover_. His mind furiously tried to wrap itself around the concept. Illya had a male lover. Illya had sex with another _man_. Illya had _sex_. He licked his lips as his heart beat double-time. His breathing increased rapidly, catching in his chest as waves of heat rolled off his partner. A sweet, familiar ache began in his groin, startling him.  
  
Those lips moved again. "Do I disgust you?"  
  
Was he disgusted? Surprised, yes, but it was understandable, given the circumstances. Illya had sex with another man. Undeniable warmth spread from somewhere deep inside him, uncurling until it consumed him. He felt his head shake of its own volition and a rasped, "No," fell from his lips.  
  
The lips moved closer this time until he could feel the vibrations as Illya asked, "Do you still want to uncover the mystery that is Illya Kuryakin?"  
  
Napoleon didn't think. He didn't have to. The slightest forward movement brought their lips together. A tingle shot straight down his spine, sending a shiver through his entire body. There was a slight change in pressure; firmer, softer, more demanding and inquisitive all at once. His mouth opened under Illya's and a tongue teased him. He found himself returning the kiss, tongue darting out to taste the unique flavor of the Russian. His left hand slipped behind Illya to rest at the small of his back, while the right brushed against the fair cheek on its way to cup the back of Illya's head. He drew his partner closer, bodies pressed tightly together. His arms tightened around Illya, wanting to touch more, feel more, more, more, more...  
  
What the hell was he doing? He jerked his head back, banging his head on the wall again. "No," he breathed.  
  
Illya's mouth attached itself to the side of his neck, sucking and nipping at the heated flesh.  
  
"No," Napoleon repeated with more force, finally drawing the Russian's attention.  
  
"No, what?" Illya murmured distractedly as he bent to lick the other side of his neck.  
  
"St-stop," he whispered as Illya's tongue flicked at his earlobe. His surprisingly hot mouth sucked at the delicate bit of flesh, causing Napoleon to moan softly.  
  
Illya hummed something that could have been affirmative or negative, but as it reverberated deliciously through his entire being, he couldn't concentrate to figure it out.  
  
"Stop..." he started to protest, but Illya's tongue once again found home in his mouth. Sliding effortlessly past his lips, the silken glide against his own tongue made him begin to question his own seduction techniques. Illya pulled back to lap at his lower lip like a cat with a bowl of cream, dragging his lower lip along Napoleon's before delving back in.  
  
There was almost painful pressure behind the kiss this time, and Napoleon realized it was from his own hand at the back of Illya's head. His other hand fisted a large hunk of the back of his partner's polo shirt. He found himself pushing back against Kuryakin, the sudden shove of a thigh between his legs startling him. An erection that was not his own pressed against his thigh, and he shoved Illya back successfully this time.  
  
"Wait just a damn minute," he gasped as he held onto the wall for support. He tried to rein in his scrambled thoughts, his usually tightly controlled emotions, and catch his breath all at once.  
  
"Do I have to count down, or is that sufficient time?" Illya asked breathlessly.  
  
Napoleon lifted incredulous eyes to him, only to be rocked to his core by the sultry seduction in his partner's eyes. And women accused _him_ of having 'bedroom eyes'. "No," he managed to gasp out. "We need to talk."  
  
One corner of Illya's mouth lifted in a knowing smirk. "Talking is not what I had in mind, Napoleon. Actions speak louder than words."  
  
"Yes, well, right now I think I'd like some words, thank you." Some of his composure returned and he straightened his clothing. When had his top three buttons been undone?  
  
"Wet." The Russian's accent was thick, his voice as low and as sultry as his look. "Hot. Naked."  
  
His hands faltered. "Wh-what?" he choked.  
  
"You do not like those words? I have many others. Thrust. Sweat." That nimble tongue wet Illya's lower lip. "Lick."  
  
His control snapped. "Enough! What's gotten into you?"  
  
Illya shrugged, one shoulder raising with an economy of movement that Napoleon had come to know. "Nothing is wrong with me. I have had lots of practice -- six years worth -- of furthering Soviet-American relations."  
  
"This is your idea of furthering relations?" he barked, unsure whether to laugh or be sick. He stood his ground as Illya started moving toward him.  
  
"Can you think of a better reason?" Illya now stood toe-to-toe with him, head tilted back slightly to stare straight into Napoleon's eyes. "After all that teasing, what other response were you expecting?"  
  
"Teasing? What teasing?" he asked in confusion.  
  
"The sly looks. The knowing glances. The conversations _alone_ , Napoleon. 'If you are top agent, I am right under you.' How else should I have read that? All of that interest in me. All of those questions about girls. You were making sure I would be interested." Illya's hands returned to the wall next to his head, boxing him in again. The Russian's hot breath ghosted across his skin as he whispered, "Are you sure now?"  
  
He opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it as Illya's mouth descended towards his. He didn't have to be kissed. He could duck under Illya's arms. He could just punch him in the jaw; his hands hadn't been held since that initial struggle. He could have done a lot of things, except he did none of them.  
  
His breath quickened as Illya's lips touched his, a light brush that had him reaching for more. He stopped himself before he made contact. "Stop, please," he whispered. He could feel the heat of Illya's lips a breath away from his own, but they didn't touch his. "I don't...I don't know what's going on here." He met Illya's eyes and pleaded again, "Please."  
  
Kuryakin took a step back, confusion shining from the depths of his eyes. "I thought you wanted this."  
  
"I-I don't...don't know." Napoleon found himself at a loss for words. He walked over to his wet bar and poured himself a double scotch. His hand trembled as he raised the glass to his lips and took a large swallow. "I don't know why you think I'd be interested _that_ way. I wanted to know more about my new partner. I asked questions about your life. We developed an easy banter rather quickly, but I just thought you were getting comfortable around me."  
  
"You never felt anything unusual when we touched?" Illya asked quietly.  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked as he took another swallow.  
  
"Do you remember the sparring match we had in the training room?"  
  
Warmth spread through Napoleon as he remembered the feel of the Russian's arm under his hand and the intensity of his stare. "Yes," he admitted softly.  
  
"Did the room fade away for you, Napoleon? Was I the only one there?" he whispered. "Did the others not matter?"  
  
Nervously, Solo finished his drink. "This is ridiculous. We've obviously had a misunderstanding, Illya. Maybe you didn't understand what I was trying to do. I just wanted you to loosen up a bit."  
  
"Napoleon."  
  
He wished the Russian would quit saying his name that way. It sent a shiver up his spine.  
  
Illya crossed the room and poured himself a shot of scotch. "I do not think you understood what _you_ were doing. How do you let a girl know you are attracted to her?"  
  
The question startled Napoleon, but he recovered quickly. "I ask her about herself. Take her to dinner. Lavish attention on her."  
  
"You flirt outrageously," Illya corrected mildly. "I believe it might be second nature to you."  
  
Napoleon's hand tightened around the glass. "So what if I flirt with girls? There's nothing against that in the U.N.C.L.E. manual."  
  
"No there is not, but I do not think you realize what we have been doing for the past few days."  
  
He couldn't meet Illya's eyes. "What?" he asked carefully.  
  
"You invited me to dinner. You asked me questions about my interests, my life, and my hobbies. You 'lavished attention on me' for lack of a better term. And let us not forget our easy banter. You were flirting with me."  
  
Napoleon's face got very hot. "I wasn't!"  
  
Illya sighed. "Look at it from my point of view, Napoleon."  
  
He did. And had to close his eyes. "Oh, my God."  
  
"Is the prospect that terrible?" Illya's sotto voice was too close to his ear, and heat radiated off the body near his.  
  
"That isn't the point," Napoleon hissed too quickly. "I didn't realize...It wasn't my intention to lead you on. I'm sorry."  
  
The silence stretched painfully as Napoleon waited for the sound of the front door. He knew Kuryakin would request a transfer after this. Illya couldn't work with an agent he couldn't trust, and Napoleon couldn't think of a worse violation of trust than this. He had honed his skill as a womanizer so much that it _had_ become second nature. Was every conversation he had construed as a seduction? Did everyone think as Illya did?  
  
"Napoleon."  
  
The softly whispered sound of his name in his ear caused him to jump. He tried to pull away, but a warm hand on his arm stopped him. "Why aren't you gone?"  
  
"Do you want me to go?" Quiet patience from Illya. Where was this coming from?  
  
"Why would you stay? I violated the trust between partners."  
  
Strained silence once again filled the apartment, then Illya's voice muttered, "No, Napoleon, it is I who violated the trust. You see, I knew you did not realize what you were doing. I could have stopped you. I could have ignored you. I could have told you what you were doing. I did nothing. Whether intentional or not, it was flattering just the same."  
  
Kuryakin's words filtered through his self-agonizing. "What are you saying?"  
  
"I could have stopped you, but I did not because I liked it. It is I who led _you_ on, Napoleon. For that, I am sorry." The warmth left him. "I will ask for a transfer in the morning."  
  
"No, you won't." Napoleon turned around and stared at his partner, really seeing him for the first time. There was no coldness or heartlessness. There was a softness in his eyes, combined with a familiar sadness - familiar because it was reflected in his own mirror every morning. It was dangerous to trust in their line of work. Illya knew that, yet he had trusted him with his secret. What was it about him that allowed Illya to trust him so soon? Was he that transparent? "Did you love Alexei?" he asked quietly.  
  
Pain-filled eyes met his. "Yes."  
  
"Did he lie to save you from the same fate?"  
  
A whispered answer: "Yes."  
  
Napoleon searched his eyes, though there was a veil over them. A protective gesture. "Why did you risk telling me?"  
  
"If I wanted to pursue a relationship with you, I had to be honest. With a secret such as that between us, you would never fully trust me." He stepped closer. "And even if we do not become lovers, I still want that level of trust between us. No secrets."  
  
Warmth from those ice blue eyes pierced his chest and spread throughout his body. He licked his lips. "What if we did become lovers?"  
  
Illya stopped within arm's reach and his eyes raked him from head to toe. Napoleon may as well have been naked, for that was how Illya's eyes felt on him. The Russian's voice was remarkably calm as he asked, "Are you saying you would want to?"  
  
Solo shook his head with a nervous smile. "I'm asking how you would feel."  
  
"It would make me very happy." Illya paused. "How would you feel?"  
  
"I'm not sure." Napoleon caught the gleam in Kuryakin's eyes and knew he was hopelessly lost to his new partner. A slow, seductive smile curved his lips. "But I think I'd like to find out."  
  
A lazy smile crossed Illya's features. "Would you care to have dinner?"  
  
Napoleon blinked. "What?"  
  
"Dinner. That meal you probably missed as you were at Headquarters. I have not had anything to eat tonight."  
  
"But, don't you want to..." He couldn't stop his glance toward the bedroom, and heat flushed his face.  
  
His partner's voice was thick with emotion. "I would like to, very much. But I would like to get to know you better first." Illya's smile faded. "Unless that is all you want."  
  
A delicious tingle went down Napoleon's spine as he contemplated what Kuryakin was suggesting. Did he want more? His lips burned as he licked them, remembering Illya's kisses. Could he settle for less? What did he want? He wanted this. He wanted to uncover the mystery. He blurted out, "The first thing you need to know about me is that I had sex with all those women, but I've cared for very few of them. I've loved even less. I keep my heart securely wrapped in steel so my emotions don't get in the way of the mission. It's better to have a reputation as a ladies man. It saves me the trouble of getting involved." He paused and took a deep breath. "It's also very lonely."  
  
Illya was silent for a moment, then he stated, "I like Japanese."  
  
The words didn’t seem an appropriate response to what he had just said.  "Excuse me?"  
  
Illya retrieved his coat and handed it to him. "I said, I like Japanese. Have you ever tried it?"  
  
He took the coat automatically and fixed Illya with a confused glare. "Food? You're thinking of food...?" At Illya's raised eyebrow, he understood. He had given an answer without realizing it. "Dinner," he agreed. "And then...?"  
  
Illya matched his smile. "And then, I go downstairs to bed. We have an early day tomorrow. U.N.C.L.E. is still on alert for Thrush attacks, and Waverly was getting impatient to calm them back down when I left." 

Thrush. The attacks. Was that only a few hours ago that he had been in one himself at Macedonia's? It seemed a lifetime away. "I'm willing to try something new," he stated, his double meaning clear.  
  
"I believe we will have an interesting partnership, Napoleon," Illya remarked as they made their way downstairs.  
  
"I believe we already do," Solo answered.  
  
The end


End file.
